Mistaken Identity
by Laine3112
Summary: After sustaining a serious injury during a dangerous assignment, Tony assumes his undercover persona, causing the FBI to believe he has gone rogue. Can Gibbs find and clear his agent before tragedy strikes? Case file - Gibbs/Tony hurt/comfort. Whole cast.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**A/N: - **This story took almost a year to complete and was both a Godsend and a burden during a difficult year. It is a case file, (as are most of my stories) but, in order for me to grow as a writer, it contains a lot more detail than I usually add and required a considerable amount of research on my part. It is a long story with plenty of forensic, military and medical details that I have tried to depict as accurately as possible. If there are any inconsistencies or irregularities, I hope you will overlook them for the sake of the story. As with my other stories, I have tried to combine plenty of team and character interaction, lots of hurt Tony/protective Gibbs moments, drama, angst, action, humour and hopefully an interesting and plausible plot.

If that's not your "thing" or if you don't think you have the time or patience to take a long ride with me and allow me time to weave the story, please feel free to bail out now and, hopefully, you'll join me for the next story. Forewarned, okay?

Thank you to LG for your unwavering support in life and fanfic and to my LINDY's for their encouragement.

I hope you enjoy this story, L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 1**

Another heavy sigh of frustration and a muttered obscenity from across the bullpen drew Gibbs' attention from his reports. He looked over the top of his glasses and studied the dishevelled form of his senior field agent.

Four days ago, Tony had completed an undercover assignment that had taken a month to reach culmination. Although a successful outcome had been achieved, the assignment had taken its toll on the younger man who had lived and breathed every minute as his sleazebag, drug and gunrunning, alter ego, Gus Bricker.

In preparation for this assignment, Tony had spent a gruelling two weeks at the NCIS Contingency Response Field Office in Georgia. There, he had been engaged in highly specialised training - primarily in the handling and operation of an assortment of weapons and field explosives, from pistols to light machine guns and from hand grenades to C-4 and RPG's. By the time he was finished his training, what he didn't know about the range, calibre, and operation of these weapons was not worth knowing.

He was beyond exhausted and considerably pissed that one of their main suspects, Petty Officer Jay Forello, had escaped custody when the bust was made. It was the thought of the "one that got away" that caused Tony's dark mood and frustration.

The team had spent the best part of the past four days processing and interrogating Forello's known associates and running down a dozen leads on the whereabouts of the missing petty officer – all to no avail.

With his hair mussed and wearing faded jeans torn at the knees, a t-shirt and a week's growth, Tony looked more like Bricker than his usual clean-shaven, well-groomed self and Gibbs noted with concern that the transition from sleazebag to federal agent seemed to be taking a little longer than usual.

Although Tony loved undercover work and was an experienced operative, one look at his pallor and his drawn appearance was all it took to realise just how punishing a month long assignment could be and how much it had cost him mentally and physically. The dark smudges under his eyes told Gibbs that his senior field agent was in desperate need of few days R & R.

Rising to his feet, Gibbs walked across the bullpen to Tony's desk where he placed a document in front of the younger man.

"Sign it," Gibbs said, indicating the bottom of the page.

Tony dutifully signed the form without bothering to read it and frowned as Gibbs co-signed the document and walked back to his own desk, without explanation.

"Ah…Boss?" Tony asked. "Did I just sign away my car? Make you sole beneficiary of my will? Donate a kidney?"

"Nope. I just approved your vacation request."

"I didn't request a vacation."

"This your signature?" Gibbs asked, holding the freshly signed document out for him to see.

"Well…yeah…but…"

"But nothing, your four day weekend starts tonight. I don't want to see you back here until Tuesday at zero seven hundred."

"Come on, Boss, I'm fine…and besides, the job's not done until we find Forello, right?"

"Wrong. You've spent the last month undercover and two weeks before that with the Contingency Response Team," Gibbs stated. "Take the leave and let us worry about Forello. You got someplace to go?"

"Who's going where?" Abby asked, walking into the bullpen with Ducky and Palmer trailing close behind.

"Tony is taking four days vacation," Ziva replied. "We are about to help him choose his destination."

"What about Panama City?" Palmer piped up. "He loves it there!"

"No!" Gibbs vetoed immediately. "I don't want him back here smelling like a brewery and looking worse than he already does."

"So…some place quiet…where he can get lots of rest," Abby suggested.

"How about my apartment?" Tony offered.

"No!" the others replied simultaneously.

"Don't you have an old college buddy who owns a cabin in the mountains in Connecticut?" McGee asked.

"That's right!" Abby replied before Tony could answer. "Steve Hayes. He's always inviting you to stay."

"What a wonderful idea!" Ducky enthused. "The rest and mountain air will do you the world of good, my boy. You are looking a trifle piqued."

"Book his flight, McGee," Gibbs instructed, tossing his credit card on the junior agent's desk. "First flight out of Dulles tonight."

"Tonight! Look, it's not that I don't appreciate this…" Tony said trying to force a smile, "but I haven't spoken to Steve in months. He may not even want me at his cabin let alone…."

His words trailed off as Abby shoved a cell phone in his face – his own cell phone.

"It's for you," she said smiling smugly.

"Who is it?"

"It's your old college buddy, Steve Hayes," Abby said. "He said you're more than welcome to stay at the cabin and he needs to tell you where to find the keys and how to light the gas heater."

"You called him?" Tony asked in astonishment.

"Yep," Abby replied handing Tony his phone and whispering loudly. "I took a chance that his number was in your cell - don't keep him waiting."

Tony begrudgingly made arrangements with Steve to stay at the cabin for his enforced long weekend but when he ended the call, he was still reluctant to go.

"Okay…you are booked on the 2015 from Dulles to Hartford, Connecticut. You arrive approx. 2100 and I've booked a rental for you to get to the cabin," McGee advised.

Feeling like he'd been backed against a wall, Tony protested again.

"Come on, Boss, this really isn't necessary. I can rest at my own apartment," he said, feeling like he'd lost the war without even waging a battle.

"You heard McGee, you're already booked," Gibbs said.

"I can't just up and leave, I have responsibilities here!" he argued.

Gibbs raised a quizzical eyebrow and Tony answered the non-verbal question.

"Well…what about my fish and my plant thingies?" Tony said desperately grasping at straws. "I can't leave Zeus and Apollo unattended for four days."

"I will be happy to feed your fish and attend to your plants, Tony," Ziva offered.

"Ah, but you can't…because you don't have a key and I don't have another spare and…Wait, what am I saying? You don't need a key to get into my apartment."

Ziva smiled and nodded in confirmation. Despite Tony's elaborate double deadlocks, with her "ninja" skills, she would have his door open in seconds.

"Okay…well…I'm not packed!" he said, pleased that he'd thought of another reason to cancel the trip. "By the time we finish work tonight, I won't have time to drive my car back to my apartment, pack a bag and get a cab to Dulles."

"I'd be happy to follow you to your apartment during our lunch break, Tony," Palmer said. "Then you can pack a bag, leave your car in your garage and I'll bring you back."

Tony's icy glare was lost on the ever-obliging assistant ME.

"I'm sure Ducky has plenty for you to do, Palmer," he said through gritted teeth.

"Nonsense, my boy!" Ducky chirped. "Mr Palmer is entitled to his lunch hour, as are you."

"Abby and I can pick you up at the airport when you return at 1945 on Monday evening," McGee added.

Tony looked stunned. "You know, if this was the Wild West, I'd think I'd just been run out of town."

"If everyone doesn't get back to work, there'll be a few more people being run out of town," Gibbs said, scattering agents, forensic scientists and medical examiners in all directions.

His cool blue eyes met Tony's confused green ones across the room and his lips twitched in a slight smile as he heard him wonder aloud.

"What just happened?"

"It's called vacation intervention, DiNozzo, you're going to Connecticut!" he answered definitively. "And DiNozzo?"

"Boss?"

"Lose the whiskers."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

As unhappy as he had initially been about the compulsory downtime, Tony realised that as the trail for the petty officer became colder, he began to feel more exhausted and frustrated. As the end of the working day approached, he started to look forward to hopping a plane to Connecticut for his extra long weekend. The thought of switching off his cell and surrounding himself with his jazz CD's and a selection of his much loved DVD's was becoming more and more appealing.

McGee and Ziva had long since completed their reports, handed them to Gibbs and been excused for the evening. They said goodnight, wished Tony a nice vacation and left the office.

"Pack it up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Your flight's in an hour."

"Almost ready, Boss," Tony said. "I'll finish these reimbursement request forms and grab a cab to the airport. No problem."

Both men returned their attention to the reports on their desks when the shrill tone of Gibbs' cell fractured the silence. Although his words were calmly spoken, Tony recognised the barely perceptible change in his tone and was already reaching for his weapon and ID by the time Gibbs disconnected the call.

"Forello?" Tony asked.

"Gotta tip off, Forello is heading for a bar called Malone's, you know it?" Gibbs asked, reaching for his own weapon.

"Malone's? Sure, it's over on G Street, about a mile from here," Tony replied.

"You've got a flight to catch, I'll call McGee."

"I'll catch a later flight," Tony said. "Come on, Boss, I spent a month undercover trying to nail that little weasel! By the time McGee gets here, Forello could be gone."

Gibbs thought for a moment before nodding his approval.

"Who phoned it in?" Tony asked.

"Forello's ex-wife."

"Ah…nothing like a woman scorned or a bitter ex-wife to bring a man back to earth with a thud. 'Cause you'd know more about that than me, right, Boss? The bitter ex-wife part I mean…not the woman scorned…I think I could give you a run for your money there…"

Tony grimaced as Gibbs impaled him with a look that would freeze hell.

"I'll get the car, meet you out front," he said hurrying to the sanctuary of the stairwell.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

It was approaching 2000 hours and the Thursday night revellers were headed to the many nightclubs, restaurants and bars in the area to spend their paychecks. As Gibbs carefully weaved the sedan through the slow moving traffic, Tony changed his flight to the 2330 from Dulles and was busy fidgeting with his com-link and earwig when he saw a familiar face and reached for the door handle.

"Boss, across the street, your ten o'clock."

Gibbs turned his trained eyes in that direction and immediately noticed Forello standing on the sidewalk, in a deep and animated discussion with an unknown man who was heavily tattooed and wearing gang colours.

"Gang banger's wearing 18th Street colours," Tony said. "He's taking a big chance meeting with Forello this far from his home turf."

Gibbs confirmed with a nod and wheeled the vehicle into the first available parking spot. "Take it slow, if Forello spots you he'll run and he'll be damned hard to catch in this crowd."

"Gotcha, Boss," the younger man replied before climbing from the car and jogging casually across the busy street.

Tony was just fifty feet from Forello when a loud altercation between two inebriated men caused most heads to turn in that direction. Gibbs saw Forello's startled expression as he noticed Tony heading his way. The "deer in the headlights" pose vanished instantly as the petty officer sprinted from the scene with Tony in hot pursuit, calling for Forello to stop and for people to get out of the way.

"Damn it!" Gibbs muttered under his breath as he veered back into the traffic intending to cut off Forello's escape route.

By the time the men had sprinted two city blocks, Tony was starting to reel in the petty officer's head start but was still 30 feet behind. Gibbs cursed again as the traffic ahead came to a standstill and blocked his path. Abandoning the vehicle he joined the pursuit, reluctantly acknowledging that, with his bad knee, he would not be able to maintain the pace for too long.

The pedestrian traffic was thinning and Gibbs spoke to Tony via the com-link.

"I'm on foot, fifty feet to your six."

Tony could hear Gibbs' footfalls pounding the pavement behind him but didn't look back as he breathlessly replied.

"Roger that."

Tony heard the unspoken warning loud and clear. He had been Gibbs' partner for over nine years now and there had been many a heated debate when Tony had out distanced his teammates and faced his quarry without back up. He was a natural athlete who, even in his late thirties, was still deceptively fast and loved to run down a suspect.

The lactic acid was burning through his muscles as the chase continued down a less busy cross street. Although both agents had drawn their weapons according to regs, in such a populated area, the safeties were on and the barrels were pointed downward.

With another city block behind them, Forello was now only fifteen feet ahead of Tony and showed no intention of yielding despite Tony's repeated calls.

"Nearly got him, Boss," Tony panted. "I've nearly got him."

Mindful of keeping his back up in sight, he chanced a quick look over his shoulder at Gibbs, who was now about forty feet behind. He was equally reassured and impressed by the older man's dogged determination not to let the pain of his bad knee, prevent him from watching his partner's six. He was about to turn his attention back to Forello, when he heard Gibbs' shouted warning through the earwig.

"Tony! Look out!"

The blood-chilling screech of tyres was a short precursor to the sickening sound of flesh and bone colliding with metal. Gibbs watched helplessly as Tony's body careened into the windshield before landing with a nauseating thud on the street in front of the vehicle.

With a burst of speed he didn't know he had left in him, Gibbs sprinted to the accident site and skidded to a halt beside the unconscious form of his senior field agent. Ignoring the complaints of his painful knee, he immediately felt for Tony's pulse, relieved when he found a strong beat.

A small crowd of on-lookers began to gather as Gibbs hit the speed dial on his cell and advised the NCIS dispatcher that he had an agent down and required urgent medical assistance. A look further down the street told that Forello was long gone.

He barely acknowledged the distraught driver's desperate claims that Tony "ran right in front of him," even though he knew that the driver was not at fault. As he carefully checked the younger man for obvious signs of critical injury or bleeding, an elderly woman appeared beside him, offering an emergency blanket that Gibbs gratefully accepted and placed over Tony's still body.

Gibbs urgently looked around for Tony's weapon, recalling that he'd seen it propelled from his grasp upon impact with the vehicle. He spotted it laying in a nearby gutter, retrieved it quickly and made his way back to Tony's side. The sound of a distant siren drawing closer brought its own relief.

"Tony? Can you hear me?" Gibbs said softly to the unconscious man. "Ah, dammit DiNozzo!"

The next twenty minutes were a blur as the EMT's arrived and examined a still unconscious Tony.

Gibbs handed his business card to a responding Metro PD officer, gave him the keys to his abandoned vehicle and told him to contact him tomorrow for a full statement.

His first and only priority for the moment was the condition of his agent.

The EMT's carefully placed Tony in a cervical collar, onto a backboard and loaded him into an ambulance. Gibbs was at his side as they rushed him to Bethesda.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**Thank you for reading and and special thanks to those of you who, during the past few months, filled my "inbox" with kind wishes and prayers. L**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**A/N:- Thank you all, so much for your warm wishes. Due to some site problem, this story seems to be appearing and disappearing at irregular intervals so I hope you're not having too many problems accessing it. Have just enough time to squeeze in the next chapter before I have a short break. L**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 2**

Gibbs was leaning against the counter, awash in Tony's personal and health insurance paperwork. He was sickened by the thought that, over the years, he'd completed the details so many times he had committed them to memory.

Dr. Donald Mallard entered the waiting room looking resplendent in a dinner suit and bow tie. Spotting Gibbs at the nurses' station he walked briskly to join him.

"I _am_ sorry, Jethro, my cell was switched off during the performance. I wasn't able to return your call until after the first act," Ducky said. "Is there any news?"

"None. He was still unconscious when we arrived 30 minutes ago," Gibbs replied, carding his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"How on earth did this happen? I was under the impression that Anthony was on vacation and boarding a flight to Connecticut this evening."

"Got a late lead on Petty Officer Forello. Tony wanted in on the collar. There was a foot pursuit and he didn't see the car," Gibbs stated wearily.

"Oh my! I'll see what information is available on his condition. Try not to worry, Jethro, I'm sure Anthony is in very good hands," Ducky assured before he disappeared through the double, swinging doors leading to the trauma rooms.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The sound of platform heels echoed down the corridor, heralding the arrival of a distraught looking Goth scientist. Abby looked around the waiting room and saw Gibbs at the nurses' station. Her expression changed instantly from distress to anger.

Eyes flashing wildly, she rapidly closed the distance between them, curled her fingers into a fist and punched his shoulder.

"Ow, Abby! What was that for?"

"What was _that_ for? Do you really have to ask, Gibbs?" she fumed. "Tony has been hurt and rushed to hospital and how do I find out? Sister Rosita told me – _that's_ how I found out! Why didn't _you_ call me? Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"

"I was going to call you as soon as I had some news," he explained.

"So…there's no news?" she said, her eyes filled with concern.

"Not yet. Ducky's gone to see what he can find out." His head tilted as a thought occurred. "How did Sister Rosita find out that Tony was hurt – and don't say divine intervention."

"No, not divine intervention…although, that would have been _way _cool…she found out from Sister Mary Francis, who heard it from Sister Angelica, whose cousin on her father's side, twice removed, lives next door to Rebecca Davison."

"And Rebecca Davison is..?"

"You know Rebecca Davison, Gibbs?"

Gibbs shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "Nope."

"She's the strawberry blonde "cupie-doll" from Dispatch that's always drooling over Tony and baking him cookies – you make her cry every second day when you yell at Tony and chase her out of the bullpen!"

"She was the dispatcher I spoke to when I called in the accident…"

"And she phoned her neighbour, who called her cousin on her father's side twice removed, Sister Angelica, who told Sister Mary Francis, who called Sister Rosita, who told me!"

Gibbs signalled to Ziva and McGee who had just entered the room.

"Boss, we just heard about Tony!" McGee said breathlessly.

"Sister Rosita called you, too?" Abby asked.

"No, Director Vance," McGee answered looking a little confused.

"Hmm, your source may have been more direct than my heavenly hotline, Timmy, but it didn't get you here any faster," Abby gloated.

"Gibbs, how is Tony?" Ziva asked.

"No news yet. Ducky's just gone in to see what he can find out," Gibbs told them. "Sit, it could take a while."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

They rose to their feet as one when Ducky walked through the swinging doors of the trauma room and made his way toward them.

"Relax everyone," Ducky announced to the concerned group. "Anthony has regained consciousness and is doing remarkably well, considering the circumstances."

"Duck?" Gibbs asked in his customary succinct manner.

"He sustained a serious concussion and some swelling to his temporal lobe - presumably caused when the left side of his skull made contact with the vehicle that struck him," Ducky explained.

"You've seen him, spoken with him?" Gibbs asked seeking further confirmation on his agent's condition.

"Oh yes, I just came from speaking with him. He is fully cognisant but has no memory of the accident itself or several hours prior. It's quite a common occurrence with head trauma of this kind, those memories may return in time or they may never return at all." Ducky continued.

"No broken bones, Ducky?" McGee asked.

"The doctors are waiting for the results of the x-rays but it seems our young man has been very lucky. He suffered multiple contusions and lacerations as a result of the accident and they are treating him for the pain. They'll keep him overnight for observation and are transferring him to a private room as we speak."

"Can we see him, Ducky?" Abby asked hopefully.

"Just for a few moments, my dear," Ducky replied kindly. "I'll arrange it with his doctor."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

By the time they were permitted to see their ailing colleague, Palmer had joined them. They entered Tony's room as quietly as possible, each of them aware of the displeased look they received from the nurse on duty, unhappy about the disruption to her patient's rest.

As they gathered around his bed and Abby took his hand, Tony slowly opened his eyes.

"Hey," he managed, looking up at the concerned faces.

"Oh, my poor baby! How are you feeling?" Abby asked softly.

"Like I've been hit by a bus," Tony smiled weakly.

"Well you are looking a little run down," McGee teased.

"McGee!" Abby scolded. "That's _so_ not funny! Ducky said Tony was _totally_ lucky that he wasn't killed."

"Don't feel lucky," Tony said, grimacing as the movement caused his battered body to protest painfully.

Panic suddenly seized him and he looked to Gibbs who was standing by the door.

"Boss, the driver?"

"Shaken up, but he's fine," Gibbs replied watching Tony sink back into the pillow in relief.

"Although, he's not real happy about the DiNozzo sized dent you left on his hood," McGee said.

"You are fortunate that you landed on your head, Tony," Ziva goaded. "Or you may have been seriously hurt, yes?"

Tony smiled wanly. "Very funny," he said sluggishly.

"So, Tony, you really don't remember the accident?" Palmer asked.

"Nope, last thing I remember is eating a breakfast burrito at my desk this morning."

"_You_ stole my breakfast burrito?" McGee asked. "You told me Ziva took it! I put a fake cockroach on her candy bar!"

"_You_ put the cockroach on my candy bar, McGee?" Ziva hissed. "You told me it was Tony and I…never mind."

"What did you do?" Tony said warily.

"You should not worry, Tony. I am sure I can defuse it before you need your locker again."

Gibbs leaned against the wall content to watch his team indulge in their usual good-natured teasing.

"Not an ideal start to your vacation, Tony," Jimmy said.

"My vacation?"

"Oh, my poor Tony, you don't even remember that you're on vacation," Abby said sadly.

"I am?" Tony asked in surprise.

"You mean, you do not remember promising to help me move to my new apartment on Saturday?" Ziva asked. "I have already cancelled the removalists as you suggested."

"_I_ suggested that?" Tony asked, his handsome face contorted in a deep frown.

"You did," Ziva nodded seriously. "You told me to save my money and that you could use a good cardiovascular work out. It is, after all, only three flights of stairs."

"Are you sure that was me, 'cause that _really_ doesn't sound like me," he frowned in confusion.

"And then you said that, on Sunday, you'd show me how to change the oil in my Porsche," McGee joined in.

"Me?" Tony gulped.

"Yes, you," McGee confirmed. "You said, and I quote – 'if you're gonna own a hot car, McSparkplug, you need to spend more money on keeping it running and less on those expensive girlie manicures."

Tony pursed his lips in thought. "Okay, _that_ sounds more like me but now I _know_ you're lying," Tony said battling his fatigue.

"How do you know?" Jimmy asked.

"Easy!" Tony stated emphatically. "I'm not that nice!"

McGee and Ziva exchanged a glance, nodded and spoke simultaneously.

"He's right, he's not!" they quipped.

The nurse reappeared at the door and cleared her throat in a not so subtle hint that it was time for the visitors to leave. They said their goodbyes and made their way to the exit.

Ignoring the pointed look from the nurse, Gibbs dragged the visitor's chair closer to the bed.

"You need anything?" Gibbs asked, realising his agent was quickly running out of energy.

Tony shook his head and instantly regretted the movement when the intensity of his headache increased and bile rose to the back of his throat.

"Ducky said we were chasing down Forello," he replied, fighting to keep his eyes open. "We get him?"

"Nope, got side-tracked when you decided to play demolition derby with that Gremlin."

Tony's eyes opened wide in horror. _"A Gremlin? _I got taken out by a_ Gremlin?"_

"Fraid so," Gibbs replied, "When I said you needed some down time, this isn't what I had in mind."

"So, I'm really on vacation?"

"As of four hours ago, you're on four days leave."

"I'm afraid he's going to need a little longer than that, Jethro," Ducky said as he entered the room carrying Tony's x-rays.

"What's the damage, Doc," Tony asked wearily.

"Surprisingly, young man, you broke nary a bone," Ducky said shaking his head in wonder. "But you have some very deep bruising and you are going to be very sore for quite some time, I expect."

"DiNozzo's are like Timex watches, Ducky," Tony said suppressing a yawn. "We take a lickin' and keep on tickin'."

They watched as Tony's eyelids grew heavier with each blink until, shortly after, they closed and stayed closed as he drifted off to sleep.

"Looks like the watch stopped, Duck," Gibbs said. "What about the concussion?"

"His doctors have prescribed some anti-inflammatory tablets and some pain killers. They have him on concussion watch tonight and they'll review his condition in the morning. All being well he will be released then but with all those additional aches and pains, he'll need at least a week until he's 100 percent – possibly two weeks."

After ensuring Tony was out for the count, Gibbs checked his watch, noting it was almost midnight. He looked Ducky up and down as if noticing his formal attire for the first time.

"Come on, Duck," he said leading the ME by the elbow. "Let's get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

It was 0630 when Gibbs approached Tony's hospital room, the ever-present Styrofoam coffee cup held in his right hand and a brown paper bag with two breakfast burritos in his left. His lips twitched into a small grin as he imagined his senior field agent pacing impatiently as he waited to be "sprung" from his hospital "prison".

He stopped suddenly in the doorway, surprised to see Tony sleeping soundly and attached to an IV line that definitely had not been there when he'd left him last night. Frowning, he turned toward the nurses' station just as the duty nurse looked up.

"You must be Agent Gibbs," she said. "Tony said you'd be here early."

"I expected to find him ready to leave," he replied. "Is there a problem?"

"Just after one this morning Tony's condition worsened. He experienced severe headaches, dizziness and he became violently ill," the nurse explained. "We called the doctor who gave him something to settle his stomach and to help him sleep. The IV is just a precaution to keep him hydrated."

"Why didn't someone call me?"

"I saw your name on his contact sheet and asked Tony if he wanted me to call you. He mumbled something about not wanting to drag you away from your boat," she huffed a laugh and shrugged. "I wasn't sure whether that was the concussion or the pain killers speaking."

"What happens now?"

"He should sleep for a few more hours. The doctor has scheduled more scans for this afternoon. Depending on the results and how Tony's feeling, he may be allowed home this evening."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs returned to the office and turned his attention to the ever-present pile of paperwork that mysteriously materialised in his in-tray each night. The soft 'ding' of the elevator sounded and the remainder of his team arrived.

"Gibbs!" Ziva said with mild surprise. "We did not expect you!"

"Boss, is everything alright? What are you doing here?" McGee asked.

"I work here," Gibbs replied.

"We thought you'd be at the hospital," McGee explained, "making sure Tony doesn't go "over the wire" before the doctors release him."

"Like last time and the time before that," Ziva added unnecessarily.

"DiNozzo's not going anywhere for a while," Gibbs informed them. He opened his mouth to explain further when the relative quiet of the bullpen was shattered by the arrival of a tall, slim, Gothic forensic specialist.

"Gibbs! You're here!" Abby exclaimed, turning every head in the operations room. "Well, duh, I know you're here, I can see you, but what I mean is - _why are you here_? You need to be at the hospital with Tony before he starts to dig an escape tunnel. You know how being in hospital drives him crazy! I hope you told the nurses to, like, place him on escape watch…he's a regular Houdini when he wants to be!"

"_As_ I was saying," Gibbs continued. "DiNozzo had a…."

"Well, this _is_ a surprise!" the cultured voice of the elderly ME declared as he rounded the corner with his youthful offsider in tow. "I expected you to be at Bethesda, preventing Anthony from tying the bed sheets together and climbing out the window."

"Or placing his pillows in his bed so the nursing staff think he's sleeping when he's already half way home," Jimmy smiled, shaking his head at the lengths his friend would go to in his quest for 'freedom'. "Tony said it was an old but effective technique from his boarding school days."

Slightly exasperated, Gibbs met each of the five pairs of eyes staring questioningly at him, then, somewhat exaggeratedly, he looked from side to side as if expecting someone else to force their way into their odd little group. He bit back a smile as five heads swivelled to the right and then to the left as if watching an imaginary tennis game. Satisfied that, for the moment, further interruptions were unlikely, he explained that Tony had suffered a set back and would be staying in the hospital until later that evening.

Before he was swept up in the inevitable avalanche of questions, his desk phoned shrilled impatiently.

"Gibbs," he replied, listening to the brief message before adding. "Tell him I'll be right up."

Pushing back from his desk, he got to his feet and headed for the staircase. "I'll be with the director," he said without looking back. "Keep checking for any leads on Petty Officer Forello – I want him."

He took the first two steps before stopping abruptly and turning towards the ME.

"Duck?"

"I'll call the hospital for an update on Anthony's condition," Ducky pre-empted.

Gibbs nodded his thanks and continued up the stairs.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Arriving at the director's office, he knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

Vance looked over the stacks of paperwork piled high on his desk and Gibbs couldn't help the grin that played across his lips.

"Still happy to sit in the big chair, Leon?"

"Don't even go there," Vance said dryly, not bothering to hide his frustration at the mountain of paperwork.

"You wanted to see me, Director?"

"Surprised to see you here, actually, thought you'd be standing guard over DiNozzo at the hospital – the man could escape from the damned electric chair!

"Talk his way out, maybe," Gibbs agreed.

"How's he doing?"

"Serious concussion, bruises, aches and pains – nothing broken. Doc's are keeping him in for further tests."

"Could have been a lot worse."

Gibbs shrugged. "Only if he'd been hit by a Datsun Honeybee."

The director frowned slightly but chose to ignore the comment.

"Actually, I was surprised to find his vacation request on my desk," Vance commented.

"He's entitled to some personal time, Leon," Gibbs said suddenly defensive. "He's got over 12 weeks accumulated and he's dead on his feet."

"I haven't got a problem with him taking leave," Vance explained. "But with Forello still at large, I'm surprised you got him to agree."

"Didn't ask him," Gibbs said with a shrug.

"Any news on Forello's whereabouts?"

"Still looking."

As his desk phone rang, Vance held up his index finger in a "just a minute" signal and picked up the receiver.

Gibbs' attention was drawn to the director's clipped and succinct tone as Vance jotted down some details on a notepad and replaced the handset.

"Looking for Forello will have to wait. We've got two dead Marines."

Gibbs back stiffened immediately. "Where?"

"Camp Lejeune," Vance replied, ripping the page from the notepad and handing it to Gibbs. "May be a training accident gone wrong – maybe not. Whatever it was we've got two dead and two injured."

"Lejeune? Mike Harding still senior agent at the Lejeune field office?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes he is, that a problem?"

"Nope, no problem. Mike's a good man. Just wondering why you're sending my team when we have a team of good agents already on base?"

"The dead Marines were both highly decorated war heroes. SecNav expects a lot of public interest and political heat. He wants you and your team down there a.s.a.p." Vance said. "The team at Lejeune have secured the scene but you'll have the lead. You'll have to brief your team en route – your transport leaves Anacostia in 35 minutes. Keep me posted."

"What about the ME?" Gibbs asked.

"Take Dr Mallard and Palmer with you. Arrange for the bodies to be transported back here for the autopsy. Once you're done with the crime scene and interviews, SecNav wants this case handled here."

With a curt nod, Gibbs turned and left the office to ready his team for their flight to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**I hope you enjoyed that, back as soon as I can - a couple of days at most - and we'll start on the investigation side of the story, L**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**A/N ****Thank you for reading and for your continued support and good wishes. L**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 3**

Gibbs assigned Abby to "DiNozzo Duty," confident that one caffeine-hyped Goth scientist was more than a match for the ailing ex-detective. With standing instructions to call him the minute Tony's test results were back, he'd kissed her on the cheek and left for Anacostia Naval Station with his team plus Ducky and Palmer.

Boarding a Navy supply chopper, they stowed their gear and strapped themselves in to the seats for the flight to Marine Corps Base, Camp Lejeune. Touching down 80-minutes later, they disembarked on the tarmac. Crouching to avoid the still spinning rotor blades, they collected their gear and were directed to a Humvee, parked nearby.

Gibbs smiled and extended his hand in greeting as NCIS Special Agent Mike Harding approached.

"Jethro. Been a long time, you look good," Harding said.

"And you're still full of BS," Gibbs quipped. "Hope we're not stepping on any toes here, Mike."

"You kidding? With 47,000 sailors and Marines on base plus their families and civilian employees, my team has more than enough on its plate," Harding replied. "Besides, from what I hear, SecNav's already turning up the heat on this one – better you than me in the firing line this time!"

Harding did a double take when he recognised the man under the beige hat.

"Ducky? That you under there?"

"Indeed it is Michael – how nice to see you again!" Ducky replied cordially.

After introductions were made they climbed into the Humvee for the 20 minute drive to the grenade training range.

"What can you tell us, Mike?" Gibbs asked.

"M67 fragmentation grenade exploded point blank and killed Lance Corporal Dean Oliver and Sergeant Major Thomas Wells who were in a bunker running some drills," Harding explained. "Could have been an accident, but..."

"But you don't believe that," Gibbs suggested.

Harding shook his head. "You know as well as I do that accidents can happen, but Sergeant Major Wells was a training instructor here at Lejeune – the best of the best. Lance Corporal Oliver already had two tours in Afghanistan under his belt – his unit was due to ship out in three days. Both were regarded as expert handlers of explosive ordnance."

"Service records?"

"Exemplary…both of them. I've arranged for the personnel office to have copies ready for your team," Harding continued. "Base CO will meet us at the training range – he's a good man, he'll move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of this."

"Excuse me, Agent Harding?" McGee said. "The preliminary report says that two other Marines were injured?"

"Call me Mike, we're more informal down here," Harding answered. "Three other Marines were standing 50 yards from the bunker when the grenade detonated. Two of them suffered minor shrapnel injuries and are being treated at the Naval hospital on base. Hey! I just realised who's missing – where's your wisecracking shadow, Jethro? He finally get sick of your DI attitude and head slaps and move on?"

Gibbs' lips twitched in a small grin. "DiNozzo's on sick leave."

"You're getting soft, Gibbs, when I worked in Washington, members of your team had to be hit by a bus before they got approval for sick leave."

"Close," McGee muttered then gasped as the point of Ziva's elbow dug into his ribs and Palmer worked hard to stop the little smile on his face from getting bigger.

"Flannery still your senior field agent?" Gibbs asked, changing the subject.

"Was, he took the position in Rota that your man turned down a while back," Harding said, unaware of the surprised looks on the faces of the rest of Gibbs' team. "Gotta admit, I figured the lead agent position and the thought of all those pretty senoritas would have had DiNozzo tripping over his tongue to get to the airport."

Gibbs was spared from answering as the Humvee arrived at the grenade training range.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

As his team and the ME's gathered their gear from the vehicle, Harding led Gibbs to a man standing just outside the roped off area, giving instructions to those around him. He wore an implacable expression and had sharp brown eyes that looked right through you and catalogued you in a second, typical of a Marine officer.

"Colonel Rod Bennett, Commanding Officer Camp Lejeune, this is Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS Washington. Gibbs will be leading the investigation,"

Harding said as the two men shook hands.

"How long will this take, Gibbs?" Col Bennett asked. "The bad weather on the other side of those hills is headed this way and these Marines have already spent too long lying in the dirt."

"We'll be as fast as we can, Colonel," Gibbs replied, noting that his team had already started processing the scene. "Do you know if the bodies were disturbed?"

The colonel nodded to a private standing about 20 feet away. He immediately walked towards them, snapping to attention beside the colonel.

"Stand easy, Private," Bennett said. "This is Private Lionel Gregory. The private was waiting with the two injured Marines when the incident occurred. He'll tell you what you need to know. I have an ambulance on the way to transport the bodies back to the base hospital for the autopsy."

Gibbs shook his head. "Sorry, Colonel, bodies will be transported back to Washington for autopsy – SecNav's orders. We'll need a list of names and access to everyone who witnessed the incident – including the injured Marines and any corpsmen and medics that attended."

Bennett pointed to a man carrying a clipboard who was heading their way. "My aide, Corporal Holmes, will assist you with anything you need."

"I'll need some time with you when we're finished here, Colonel," Gibbs said.

"Tell the corporal when you're ready, he'll arrange it. Now, if you don't mind, I have to inform the families," Bennett said before he climbed back into the jeep and drove back to his office.

"I'll get the list from the corporal and start rounding up any witnesses," Harding said, intercepting the corporal and leaving Gibbs alone with the private.

"Relax, Private," Gibbs said as he removed his notepad and pen from his pocket. As he'd expected, the young man remained standing ramrod straight and stared straight ahead. _'God, was I ever that young?'_

"Show me where you were standing when the grenade exploded," Gibbs said, realising that – Marine or not – the kid was badly shaken up. Gibbs' firm but gentle approach appeared to work and the private began to relax as he relayed the details of the minutes leading up to and immediately after the explosion.

Privates Gregory, Middleton and Mason had been waiting for their turn in the bunker for some one-on-one training with Field Instructor, Sergeant Major Wells. Their unit was due to return to Afghanistan in three days, after an enforced eight week R&R and physical and psychological re-evaluation. The sergeant major had been driving them hard for a week to ensure their readiness.

"Some of the guys in our unit are leaving for their third tour, Sir, and have already proved themselves to be experienced combat Marines," the private said.

"They think they were above refresher training, Private?"

"No, Sir, they just thought the sergeant was being…well, a bit over the top, I guess."

"That why you three where standing here ignoring safety regs instead of hunkering down in the next bunker?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes, Sir," the private replied, averting his eyes. "The sergeant was in the bunker with Dean, er, Lance Corporal Oliver when he saw us. He yelled at us to get back to the bunker and wait our turn. We'd just started to leave when we heard the grenade explode."

"Go on, Private," Gibbs coaxed.

"We hit the deck, trying to avoid the shrapnel but Middleton and Mason were both hit. I was lucky. Mason wasn't hurt bad and he and I ran back to the bunker to try to help…by the time we got there," the young Marine swallowed convulsively, the horror still evident on his face. "They weren't breathing. We tried CPR but they were hurt too bad."

"You call for a corpsman?"

"Didn't have to," the private replied. "No matter how experienced you were, when you were using live rounds, the sarge always insisted there was a corpsman on stand-by. Corpsman Paul Halliwell arrived at the bunker seconds after we did. We knew they hadn't survived but we had to do something! The corpsman helped us with CPR and after about five minutes, he confirmed that they were both dead."

"Just before the explosion, did you see who had the grenade?"

The private closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the exact details. There was a slight hesitation before he continued.

"I think Lance Corporal Oliver had the grenade, Sir," he replied.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Something else you want to tell me, Marine?"

"No, Sir," Gregory replied looking straight ahead.

"Something happen between Lance Corporal Oliver and the Sergeant Major?"

"No, Sir," Gregory answered again, a little too quickly for Gibbs liking.

"Private, we're investigating the deaths of two good Marines, if you know anything that-,"

"I told you everything I know, Sir," Gregory said resolutely. "If that's all, Sir, I'm due back at the barracks."

Gibbs nodded. He knew the kid was holding something back, protecting someone. Even without seeing his service record, he instinctively knew that Gregory was the cherry in this unit. Was he afraid of reprisals if he told what he knew?

"We're headed back that way ourselves, we'll give you a ride," Gibbs offered.

"If it's all the same to you, Sir, I'd rather double time it. I could use the fresh air."

Gibbs nodded and allowed the private to leave, knowing it would take him at least thirty minutes to run the eight miles back to camp. He'd send McGee and Ziva to question the other members of the unit, _before_ the private could regroup with his teammates and co-ordinate their stories.

By the time he'd walked to the bunker, McGee and Ziva had split the tasks between them and were busy processing the scene. McGee was bagging and tagging the area surrounding the bunker and Ziva was photographing the bodies.

Gibbs knew that, with her Mossad background, she had seen the devastating effects of man versus explosives before and was therefore better prepared than McGee for the task of photographing the hideously mutilated remains. There was no doubt the younger man would have willingly stepped up to do his job, especially as the team was short their senior field agent, but Gibbs was quietly proud of the way his team looked out for each other.

His first look at Lance Corporal Oliver was horribly reminiscent of the body of Chris Pacci, as his intestines and other entrails lay fully exposed. However, unlike Pacci, the corporal's limbs and face were also a bloodied mess.

Sergeant Major Wells had faired little better. Whilst his innards were thankfully intact, he had sustained massive blood loss and devastating facial injuries.

"Whatcha got, Duck?" he asked the elderly ME.

The diminutive doctor rose to his feet, shaking his head sadly.

"What a tragic end for these two brave lads," he lamented. "There's not much I can add that you don't already know. Not only were both men standing well within the fatality radius of the grenade when it exploded, but the severity of their injuries confirms that they were - in fact - at point blank range."

"Ah, Doctor, what is the fatality radius of a live grenade?" Palmer asked.

"M67 fragmentation grenade has a fatality radius of approx five yards and a casualty radius of fifteen," Gibbs replied by rote.

"It would also appear that the lance corporal was holding the grenade at the time of the explosion," Ducky continued, indicating that both hands and part of his forearms had been blown off.

"That checks with the eye witness account," Gibbs confirmed.

"I'm afraid with the severity of these injuries, it will be almost impossible to establish _exactly _whichinjury caused their deaths, however, we will do our best," Ducky added.

Gibbs nodded again before shifting his gaze to the threatening sky above.

"Rain's coming, Duck. We need to get these Marines out of the dirt."

"Mr Palmer and I will manage, Jethro. As you can see, the ambulance has now arrived to transport the bodies to the airfield," Ducky said. "With young Anthony in the hospital, you are already down one investigator."

Gibbs nodded in reply, knowing the ME would ensure the deceased were treated with the utmost care. He joined Ziva and McGee who were walking towards him with their gear and evidence bags.

"Boss, we've completed a search area of approx fifty yards on this side of the safety fence," McGee said.

"Find anything?"

"Pieces of shrapnel and some," McGee swallowed harshly, "some muscle tissue, bone fragments and a few fingers. Not much left of his hands."

"Stow the gear back into the Humvee and go to the base hospital. I want the witness statements of the two injured Marines plus the corpsman who attended the incident," Gibbs instructed. "Private Gregory was holding something back. I want to know what it is before we leave here this afternoon. Find out if there were any problems in the unit, any confrontations or if anyone harboured any kind of grudge."

"On it, Boss," McGee answered. "Where will we meet you?"

"I'll be with the CO. Meet me there and we'll drive back to the airfield."

"So, you think this was more than an unfortunate accident?" Ziva asked.

"Until we're done investigating…"

"We treat all deaths as suspicious," Ziva finished.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Abby was proud of her troops. Led by the formidable Major Mass Spec and ably supported by the gas chromatograph and a plethora of forensics equipment, she had breezed through her workload and driven to the hospital to see Tony.

She was surprised to find the door to his room closed and thought for a moment that Houdini DiNozzo had performed yet another disappearing act. She opened the door and peered into the strangely darkened room, gasping softly as she noticed the bed was empty. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw Tony sleeping, slack-jawed in a recliner that had been placed in the corner of the room.

Closing the door behind her, she tiptoed quietly to his side. He was still hooked up to an IV unit that now had two bags of fluids hanging from it and there was an emesis basin placed by his side. Even in the darkness, she could see how his long dark lashes looked like dark smudges on his pale skin. She sat on the plastic chair situated next to the recliner.

He inhaled deeply and without opening his eyes he reached out his hand to her.

"Hey, Abs," he whispered, keeping his eyes closed.

"Hey, Tony," she replied softly, taking his hand and leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Know that gunpowder perfume anywhere," he whispered again. "Besides, the boss smells like sawdust and coffee, McGee like Jean Paul Gaultier and Ziva would wait until I was using the bathroom."

"We thought you'd be hatching a master break out attempt by now," Abby said, absently rubbing her thumb against his wrist and frowning at the dark bruises and angry red scrapes on his arms, legacies of yesterday's accident.

"Not today, maybe tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? You've had your tests?" she asked.

"Yep, all done. Doc brought them forward when I face-planted the floor trying to get to the bathroom. I seem to have developed a little equilibrium problem."

"Noooo, I wanted to be here with you!" Abby replied, her voice rising in a high-pitched whine that sent tendrils of pain shooting through his head.

He squeezed her hand tightly and breathed deeply through his mouth.

"Abs, you think you can bring the volume down a few decibels? I'm having a bit of a problem with light and sound at the moment, too."

When there was no reply, he opened one eye to a slit and saw his friend watching him through glistening eyes.

"Come on, Abs, I'm gonna be fine. Just hit my head a bit harder than I thought that's all," he said softly, his valiant attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace. "Doc says I can probably go home tomorrow."

He reached out his hand to wipe the traitorous tear that tracked her mascara down her pale cheek and winced as his battered body protested the movement. Capturing his hand she kissed his palm and offered a sad smile in return.

"So, where is everyone? They catch a case?" he asked.

"Yep, at Camp Lejeune, they flew out this morning and are due back later tonight."

"Lejeune? We have a field office on base!" he said, as fatigue started to slur his words.

"I know, but two Marines were killed on the grenade training range and SecNav ordered the investigation be handled by the Washington office, so…"

"So, that explains why Gibbs hasn't been by."

"Oh, he came by first thing this morning to aid and abet your escape to freedom but you were still sleeping."

"Oh," he said, strangely comforted by the thought that he hadn't been forgotten. "I had kind of a bad night. Probably just as well, I'd have had to wrestle him for this recliner – he's always complaining about having to sit on those hard plastic chairs."

"Well maybe if you'd stop getting hurt, Mister, he wouldn't _have_ to sit on these hard plastic chairs," she scolded gently.

"I'll try," he said, unsuccessful in his attempt to hold back a yawn. "Sorry, Abs, can't seem to stay awake."

"Then go to sleep, silly!" Abby said, squeezing his hand. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He gave her a lop-sided smile and let himself drift back into the darkness.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Special Agent Gibbs," the colonel's aide said briskly. "The colonel will see you now, Sir."

Gibbs nodded a silent reply at the corporal and walked into the office, greeting the base CO with another quick handshake and sitting in the proffered visitors' chair.

"What are your preliminary findings?" the colonel asked.

"Still early days, Colonel, we're investigating all possibilities."

The colonel cursed under his breath. "To lose two Marines here on base – you're never prepared for that."

"What can you tell me about Sergeant Major Wells?" Gibbs asked.

"Tom Wells was a top notch Marine, totally dedicated to the Corps and those who fought in the service of their country. Saw action in two tours of Iraq and one of Afghanistan before a shoulder injury forced him Stateside."

The door opened and the corporal appeared again with a tray and a pot of freshly brewed coffee, the aroma, rich and enticing.

"Coffee?" the colonel asked. "It's the good stuff; the slop from the mess will kill you."

Gibbs didn't need a second invitation and gratefully accepted a steaming cup from the corporal, who promptly left the room. After relishing the first scalding mouthful of coffee, the colonel resumed where he left off.

"Tom could have retired or taken a cushy desk job until his pension was due but he put in for the position of Training/Operations Chief here at Lejeune and we were damned glad to have him. In my opinion, there was no a better small arms field ordnance instructor in the Corps."

The colonel looked Gibbs directly in the eye. "We lose fine, young Marines in combat everyday, Gibbs, but if it weren't for the likes of Tom Wells, we'd have lost a damn sight more!"

"Couldn't agree more, Colonel," Gibbs said sincerely. "Was Sergeant Major Wells well liked?"

"Depends on who you ask. To those of us permanently based here, he was a good friend, a loving family man and a fine Marine."

"And to others?"

"He was a DI, Gibbs, and a damn good one. Yeah, he was tough on his men and yeah they'd bitch and moan about it. He wasn't going to win any popularity awards but they knew he was trying to keep them alive and they respected that."

"He have any run-ins or confrontations with anyone lately?"

"I say again, Gibbs, he was a DI – run-ins and confrontations are an occupational hazard."

Gibbs smiled as his own memories surfaced. "I hear that!"

The colonel passed a thick file over the desk to Gibbs.

"This is his service record, including recent job evals and medicals. I've no doubt you'll find it pretty impressive reading."

"What can you tell me about the unit at the grenade training range today?"

"The unit was part of a squad that suffered heavy casualties in Afghanistan several months ago. The 4 surviving men were sent home for compulsory R & R and stood down until they completed the requisite psych evaluations. They were all deemed fit to return to duty and, after completing their refresher training here at Lejeune, they were due to be redeployed early next week."

"And Lance Corporal Oliver?"

"Another fine Marine and another tragic loss," the colonel said. "Didn't know him well but his file is impressive. He was a recipient of the Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal. Oliver was the unit leader and he was well thought of by his team and his superiors."

"I'll need a copy of his file and every man in his unit."

"My aide, Corporal Holmes, has prepared copies for you, including their psych evals," the colonel replied.

"I'll also need a list of your explosive ordnance and small arms contractors."

"You think there may have been a fault with the manufacturing?"

"We're not ruling anything out, Colonel," Gibbs replied. "But like you said, these were two highly trained Marines, with years of experience handling weapons and explosives."

"Have you spoken to the remainder of the unit?"

"My team is speaking with them now." Gibbs replied. "From our investigation so far, we've determined that Private Gregory and the two injured Marines were at the scene but did not witness the incident and Corpsman Paul Halliwell was the only other person at the scene."

With a curt nod the colonel got to his feet. "You'll keep me informed?"

"Of course," Gibbs replied extending his hand. "Appreciate your time, Colonel."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**Who said I can't write a chapter without a cliff-hanger? :) Hope you enjoyed that!**

**Next chapter:- The MCRT (sans Tony) continue to investigate what caused the death of the Marines - was it a training accident or a murder/suicide? Can they find out what the young private was hiding? Meanwhile, Abby keeps an eye on an ailing Tony until the team return home. Hope you'll join me! L**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 4**

Gibbs found Ziva and McGee waiting for him in the colonel's outer office.

"Anything?" he asked.

"We interviewed Mason and Middleton who were both being discharged from the base hospital," Ziva replied. "You are right, Gibbs, they are both withholding something."

"Both categorically denied any knowledge of animosity or confrontations within the unit or with the sergeant major," McGee continued. "But we also spoke to another Marine, who was in the gym two weeks ago, when the sergeant major was putting Oliver's unit through some hand to hand combat drills."

"And?" Gibbs asked, running his eye quickly over the Marine's written statement.

"The Marine claims that there was a heated argument between Oliver and the sergeant major, that turned physical," Ziva explained. "They had to be separated by the other members of the unit."

Gibbs exhaled loudly. "Get Mason, Middleton and Gregory in here now!"

"Already got them, Boss," McGee replied. "We separated them in case you wanted to question them individually."

"Didn't work the first time," Gibbs growled. "Bring them all to the conference room; let's see what happens when we throw them in together."

Moments later, Privates Mason, Middleton and Gregory were standing at parade rest in the conference room. McGee remained in the room with them to ensure there was no discussion or collusion.

The door opened suddenly and Gibbs strode purposefully into the room with Ziva following in his wake. He threw three files onto the large oaken table, not batting an eyelid as they slid perilously close to the edge.

"Seems we have a problem," Gibbs said, pacing predatorily around the room.

"Sir?" Middleton replied.

He feigned confusion like a pro and glanced quickly at the other members of his unit with an unspoken 'follow my lead' expression.

_"Eyes front, Marine!" _Gibbs yelled, stepping quickly into Middleton's personal space.

"We have a witness report stating that Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells were involved in a heated exchange in the gym two weeks ago," Gibbs told them. "That exchange became physical, punches were thrown and you three were required to intervene. Can any of you explain that?"

"There must be some mistake, Sir," Middleton said. "The witness must have mistaken our hand to hand drills as a real altercation."

The corner of Gibbs' mouth quirked in a humourless smile and he cast his gaze at a very nervous looking Private Gregory.

"That what happened, Gregory?" he asked.

Gregory attempted to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. "Um, I think that it must have happened as Ross, ah as Private Middleton said, Sir."

"Not an altercation, just a hand to hand combat drill?" Gibbs repeated.

"Y-yes, Sir," Gregory replied without conviction.

"Your unit in the habit of conducting hand to hand drills in the locker room, Gregory?" Gibbs said, watching the sweat start to bead on the young Marine's top lip and his Adam's apple moving convulsively.

"Sir?"

"The witness claims the fight broke out in the locker room – not the ring, not the mats but the locker room."

"I...I…"

Gibbs moved on to Mason without waiting for Gregory to explain.

Gibbs asked. "You have anything to add to that?"

"No, Sir, witness made a mistake," Mason replied.

Gibbs turned to Ziva. "Notify Colonel Bennett that we'll be pressing charges and get a couple of JAG lawyers down here."

"Wait!" Middleton said, stopping Ziva before she left the room. "You're charging us? We've done nothing wrong!"

"Gave you a chance to tell the truth, Middleton," Gibbs said with a shrug. "I'm sure you'll get another chance at your court martial."

It was evident from the worried expressions and the anxious glances that Gregory and Mason had started to lose their resolve. Middleton, however, stood firm with a smug expression on his face.

"You're bluffing," Middleton said. "We've done nothing wrong; you've got nothing on us."

Again, Gibbs stepped menacingly into Middleton's space, his eyes hard and unrelenting.

"Giving a false statement, withholding crucial evidence and deliberately interfering with a federal investigation," Gibbs hissed. "You're looking at a court martial with dishonourable discharge if you're lucky – dishonourable discharge and a two year stay in Leavenworth if you're not. Your choice."

When all three remained quiet, he nodded at Ziva again and she turned the door handle and pulled the door open.

"Wait!" Mason said. "The witness was right, there _was_ a fight but it was nothing,"

"Shut up, Mason," Middleton hissed.

"No, I have a wife and two kids that depend on my pay check," Mason replied. "If I get a DD how do I support them?"

"What caused the fight?" Gibbs asked.

"Nothing really, Sir," Mason said. "The sarge was pushing us real hard, really in our faces, you know? Dean, ah, Lance Corporal Oliver, took exception to how the sarge was treating Gregory – calling him a girl, telling him he was the weak link in the squad and had to toughen up or he'd get us all killed. Lance Corporal Oliver said some things the sarge didn't like, the sarge said some things back and before we knew what had happened, they were rolling around on the locker room floor."

"That how it happened?" Gibbs asked Gregory.

The young man nodded, his eyes lowered to the floor in embarrassment. "Yes, Sir."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing that I know of, Sir," Gregory replied. "That was our last drill of the day, we went back to our barracks and Corporal Oliver went home – he and his wife had rented a small place near the camp until we deploy. We expected things would be a lot tougher from then on…you know, the sarge getting some pay back but things seemed fine between them."

For a third time, Gibbs stepped into the personal space of Private Middleton. Although the Marine stood three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, he was rightly intimidated by the implacable expression worn by the older man.

"You agree that's what happened?" Gibbs asked.

Middleton nodded his head reluctantly. "Yes, Sir."

"Why the lies?"

"We had an obligation, Sir," Middleton stated without a hint of remorse. "An obligation to the leader of our unit, to protect his good name. He was a good Marine and we knew if you found out about the fight, things would look bad for him."

"Your _obligation, _Marine, was to tell the truth," Gibbs told him, understanding all too well the almost tangible loyalty that exists between men who have watched each others backs under enemy fire. "We'll take care of the rest."

He turned to Ziva and McGee. "Separate them again and re-take their statements, I'll meet you outside."

He strode from the room, feeling a sudden need for fresh air. Middleton was right about one thing – based on the new information, things looked bad for Lance Corporal Oliver.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

They sat in a sombre, respectful silence as the fully laden Navy helicopter made its return journey to Washington DC. The precious cargo of two dead Marines lay in temporary caskets in the rear of the aircraft. It was 1930 hours by the time they landed at Anacostia. Ducky and Palmer accompanied the bodies to the Navy Yard while Gibbs, Ziva and McGee returned separately in the agency car.

"You get anything from Corpsman Halliwell?" Gibbs asked, muttering a curse as an indecisive driver switched lanes and cut him off.

"Nothing useful, Boss. He didn't see the actual incident but heard the explosion and the screaming. By the time he got to the bunker, Gregory and Mason were performing CPR. He took over, continued for about five minutes but their injuries and the blood loss were too severe," McGee replied. "Why would the other members of the unit disregarded SOP's and not remain in the other bunker?"

"Complacency," Gibbs replied. "They were all experienced Marines. Didn't expect a grenade to explode on the wrong side of the safety wall."

Driving one-handed, Gibbs flipped his cell open and pressed the speed dial for Abby.

"Abs?"

"Gibbs, I was just about to call you!" she replied. "It's so weird how you do that all the time – not creepy weird just…kinda cool weird, like we have this strange psychic connection between us and you always know where I am and when I need you."

"Where are you?"

"So much for our psychic connection," she muttered. "I'm at Tony's."

"How's he doing?"

"It's been really awful, Gibbs. Poor Tony, he's still nauseous and dizzy and has these horrible headaches that make him sick to his stomach!"

"That's the concussion, Abs," Gibbs said, thinly disguising his own concern. "What did his doctor say?"

"That's just it, Gibbs, they won't tell me anything! They will only tell Tony's physician or his next of kin!"

"Well, what did Tony say?"

"Not a lot, he's been pretty out of it for the last few hours. They gave him something to make him sleep."

"I know you're worried, Abs, but I need you to start processing the evidence from Lejeune tonight."

"It's okay, Gibbs," Abby said. "I can be there in 20 minutes."

"Atta girl. McGee will stay with Tony in case he needs something."

"Oh, is that wise, Gibbs? I mean, if McGee needs something he should really get it himself. He can't expect Tony to…"

"Not McGee, Abs, _Tony_, in case Tony needs something."

"Oh…Tony won't need anything, they gave him the good stuff and he's out like a light. Besides, if he did need anything, he has this whole gaggle of nurses clucking over him like mother hens. Fluffing his pillows, straightening his blankets…waking him up, like, every thirty minutes to see if he wants something to help him sleep."

"DiNozzo's still in the hospital?"

"That's what I've been telling you, Gibbs, you're not listening to me!" Abby scolded. "Boy, our psychic connection is, like_, totally_ fried tonight!"

"You said you were at Tony's," Gibbs said in his defence.

"I _am_ at Tony's! But Tony's not at Tony's, he has to stay in hospital until tomorrow. I just came to his apartment to get him some clean clothes and his bathroom kit and to check on Zeus and Apollo! You know, Gibbs, maybe our planets are out of alignment. I haven't had a chance to read our horoscopes today, not that it matters now 'cause, like, today's nearly tomorrow but…Gibbs? Gibbs?"

She frowned at her cell when she realised that she was speaking to dead air.

"I _hate _it when he does that!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Thirty minutes later, Gibbs led his team, sans Tony, from the elevator back to their assigned desks in the bullpen. He flexed his shoulders several times to lessen the tightness that was beginning to settle there.

"McGee, take the evidence to the lab, Abby should be there any minute," he said placing a document on the younger man's desk. "Then I need you back here to check this list of explosive ordnance and small arms contractors for Camp Lejeune. Concentrate on everyone supplying M67 grenades. I want to know details of any previous report of weapons malfunction."

"On it, Boss."

"Ziva," he said as he placed four files on her desk. "Service records for Lance Corporal Oliver's unit. Check for any disciplinary charges or anything to indicate any animosity within the unit. I want a full background on Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells. And order some take out, looks like we'll be here awhile."

As Gibbs headed for the elevator, Ziva and McGee exchanged a wistful look. During the past six weeks, with Tony in Georgia or on assignment, they had been expected to dig deep and take up the slack in the workload. They were surprised to realise just how much they missed the irritating distraction of Tony's teasing, joking and inane chatter.

Although neither would willingly admit it, they both quietly missed the senior field agent's ability to find a crucial lead from a seemingly inconsequential piece of evidence or the tiniest hole in the well thought out statement of a suspect. Both junior agents knew that although reposed or tossing paper projectiles around the office, Tony's sharp, intuitive mind was rarely at rest. They sighed simultaneously knowing that, with one man down; this was going to be another long night.

"Chinese or Italian?" Ziva asked her team mate with a resigned sigh.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

As the elevator began to descend, Gibbs flicked the power switch and felt the car come to an abrupt halt. He took his notepad from his pocket, licked the tip of his index finger and flicked through several pages before finding the information he was looking for. Squinting to read his own handwriting, he keyed the number for Bethesda hospital into his cell and asked to be put through to the nurses' station on Tony's ward.

He was not pleased to learn that Tony's doctor had left the hospital for the night and was not expected to return before morning rounds at zero six hundred. Not put off by his brusque manner, the duty nurse assured Gibbs that Tony had shown signs of improvement this evening and had been medicated to help him sleep until morning.

He completed the call but not content with the nurse's assurances, he flicked the power back on to continue his journey to the autopsy level. Entering the rooms, he found Ducky and Palmer were ready to begin the first of two autopsies.

"Really, Jethro, if you're here to get my preliminary report on Lance Corporal Oliver, I'm afraid you are going to be disappointed," Ducky huffed. "We've only just placed the poor lad on the table and we've barely had time for introductions!"

"Relax, Duck, I'm here about Tony," Gibbs replied. "Called his doctor but he's gone for the evening. Won't be back until zero six hundred."

"Even senior residents have to sleep sometime, Jethro. In fact, I remember when I was doing my own residency, I was…"

"Ducky?" Gibbs interrupted before the loquacious ME got wound up. "Tony?"

"Of course," Ducky said with an apologetic grin. "I spoke with Anthony's doctor, on our way back to the Navy Yard this evening. Commander Fenner has been quite concerned about the severity of Anthony's headaches and nausea – as you know, both are common symptoms of a concussion."

"And?"

"And, a second set of scans indicated that while the swelling to Anthony's temporal lobe has not yet subsided, nor has it increased," Ducky explained. "If Anthony has a comfortable night, it is quite likely that Commander Fenner will release him in the morning."

Gibbs nodded his head and allowed a small huff of relief.

"Thanks, Duck, let me know when you have something," he said referring to the autopsies.

"That won't be for some time, I expect," Ducky replied. "It will be well into the early hours of the morning before Mr Palmer and I finish with our two guests. I'll have my preliminary report on your desk first thing in the morning."

"Good enough," Gibbs said striding through the doors and heading for the forensics lab. The closer he got the stronger he felt the vibration of the music through the soles of his shoes.

He fought the urge to cover his ears as he walked across the lab to the large refrigerator and removed a Caf-Pow for Abby. Unaware that she had company, Abby was circumnavigating her lab, rebooting and powering up her "babies" in readiness for the long night ahead. Her bobbing pigtails stopped a beat after the deafening music abruptly ended.

"Hey, I was listening to that!" she protested as she spun on her platform heels. "Oh, hey Gibbs!"

"Jeez, Abs, the whole building's shaking!"

"Aw, come on, Gibbs, you know it helps me concentrate," she said staring longingly at the container of Caf-Pow in his hands as he placed her beverage of choice on the counter beside her.

"Thanks for coming back," he said, then lifted his chin in the direction of the evidence McGee had delivered a short while ago. "What are the chances of finding the fragment with the manufacturer's mark on it?"

"You think the grenade malfunctioned?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Just covering all the bases. These were seasoned combat Marines – expert weapons handlers. If this was a suicide, it would have been done privately and murder/suicide doesn't feel right."

"Well, there's not much to work with," Abby said lifting the evidence bags and looking at the fragments contained within. "Not enough pieces here for me to humpty dumpty it back together again and there's no guarantee that the manufacturer's mark will be on one of the fragments we found."

He huffed out a frustrated sigh and turned toward the door. "That's what I figured; let me know if you find anything."

"Wait, Gibbs, I'm not done yet!" Abby called after him. "The composition of alloys used in production of heavy metal objects, in this case, the grenade casing, varies between manufacturers, so, it's possible to identify the source of the product even without the manufacturer's mark. Plus each fragment will contain traces of the explosive filler inside the grenade. A chemical analysis will identify each component used. Together, we can trace this little sucker right back to the manufacturer."

"How long will it take?"

"Six, maybe eight hours," Abby replied. "I can start the tests tonight but we won't have the results until morning. I'll also need a sample grenade from each of the manufacturers for comparison purposes - preferably disarmed, you know, in case something goes kaflooey!"

"Just make sure you don't go kaflooey," Gibbs said leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. "I'll send up some take out."

"Oh, wait, Gibbs, I have Tony's overnight bag," Abby said lifting the overly stuffed bag onto the counter.

"Jeez, Abs, waddya do, pack his whole wardrobe?"

"Are you kidding, Gibbs? Have you _seen_ the size of Tony's wardrobe?" Abby asked as she partially opened the zipper to allow the head of a grey, furry hippo to pop out. "I thought Tony might like the company."

"He'll be home in the morning, Abs."

"But Ducky said he'll be laid up for at least a week and I thought Bert could, you know, keep him company at home while he's there all alone and we're all here missing him."

Gibbs' lips twitched in a quick grin. Reaching to re-zip the bag, he pushed down on Bert's head, causing a loud, somewhat muffled sound of flatulence.

Abby bit her bottom lip, expecting the vulgar but lovable stuffie to be removed from Tony's bag and left behind. Gibbs rolled his eyes, zipped the bag and carried it back to the bullpen with Bert riding safely inside.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"McGee, what have you got?"

"Kung Pao chicken with fried rice and vegetables, Boss," McGee replied attempting to capture a wayward piece of chicken with his chopsticks. "Your beef and black bean sauce with noodles is on your desk."

"The case, McGee, what have you got on the case?" Gibbs said tossing the overnight bag behind his desk and ignoring the fart noise that emanated from within.

"Right, er, sorry, Boss," McGee said, placing the take out container to the right side of his desk as he read from his computer screen. "There are six manufacturers under contract to the Department of the Navy that provide explosive ordnance, small arms, light weapons and ammunition to Camp Lejeune. Of those six, the largest contractor is Corbin Ordnance Limited or COL as it's known. Six months ago, COL was awarded a three billion dollar contract to supply Navy and Marine bases on the east coast and our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan."

"Any other reports of serious weapon malfunctions?" Gibbs said, shovelling the last of his meal into his mouth and swiping the rest of McGee's Kung Pao chicken.

"Checking now," McGee said, as his fingers keyed in a command with blinding speed. "Ah, yes…I've got something. Two months ago, a Marine was killed and three were injured in Afghanistan when the enemy engaged their squad. The SMAW they were using misfired and the round exploded in the launch canister."

"Was there an investigation?" Gibbs asked.

"The incident was reported to the DoD Explosives Safety Board who ordered the remains of the SMAW to be returned Stateside for examination."

"And?"

"The SMAW was loaded on to a Black Hawk that was shot down near Garmser by Taliban insurgents using a shoulder-launched surface to air missile," McGee reported.

"Killed all eleven Marines onboard," Gibbs said soberly.

"You knew about this, Boss?"

"Not about the SMAW - I read about the loss of the Marines."

"Oh. The investigation was dropped due to the loss of evidence but DoD conducted a full safety standards audit of Corbin Ordnance Limited and it met or surpassed all requirements," McGee finished.

"Do a full background search on whoever's running COL," Gibbs instructed. "And check with NCIS Fraud Division."

"Fraud Division?" McGee asked.

"Before the Navy hands over a three billion dollar contract, it does a pretty thorough investigation."

"On it, Boss," McGee said as he frowned into his mysteriously empty dinner container.

"Ziva," Gibbs said as he stood expectantly at her desk.

"We already know, Lance Corporal Oliver and Privates Mason, Gregory and Middleton were a fire-team unit attached to a squad of twelve Marines in Afghanistan," Ziva read from her file. "The squad came under heavy artillery fire and were ordered to pull back. Oliver's unit was pinned down at the time and the rest of the squad took cover behind a large truck. As they laid down cover fire for Oliver's unit, the truck was hit by a mortar round and all eight Marines were killed."

"The unit was sent home for compulsory R & R, psych evals and refresher training and were due for redeployment to Afghanistan next week," Gibbs continued, greedily eying the remains of Ziva's sautéed Bok Choy with cashew sauce.

"That is correct," Ziva said. "There are no reported incidents of disharmony or division among the unit or the squad and I have made arrangements to speak with the wives of Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells by phone in the morning."

Gibbs nodded his head, voraciously devouring the last of the Bok Choy. "Anything in the psych reports?"

Ziva frowned, watching the last remnants of her dinner disappear. "I have read through the psychological reports and the comments from Commander Adrian Murray, the chief psychologist at the Naval hospital at Camp Lejeune. He stated that he treated Lance Corporal Oliver for some form of PTSD but believed that all members of the unit were stable and ready for deployment. It all looked quite straightforward to me but perhaps Ducky could see something that I did not."

"Make a copy of the psych evals for Ducky," Gibbs said. "See what he thinks. I want those full backgrounds on Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells, first thing in the morning"

"Yes, Gibbs," she replied.

Gibbs checked his watch, it was just after 2200 and he realised his team had been working hard without a break.

"Go home, get some rest," he told his team. "Be back by zero six hundred."

As Gibbs left the bullpen for parts unknown, McGee and Ziva shut down their computers and tidied their desks. They exchanged a small empathetic smile before tossing their empty food containers in the trash.

"Should have ordered more food," McGee said.

"Tony channels Gibbs when Gibbs is not here – perhaps we have just witnessed Gibbs channelling Tony, yes?"

"Certainly channelling his appetite – when it comes to take out, Tony is a six foot two stomach on legs," McGee replied lifting his backpack to his shoulder.

"Maybe Gibbs went to the lab in search of more food," Ziva said. "Should we warn Abby?"

"Nah, Abby would fight to the death before she'd give up her crispy skin chicken," McGee said emphatically as they headed for the elevator and a good night's rest.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**What? No cliff hanger? I hope you're keeping score and will cut me some slack when the cliff hangers come later in the story! :)**

**Next chapter - Gibbs arrives at the hospital to take his injured agent home. The investigation continues into the death of the Marines and the Navy weapons contractor COL. Can Gibbs and the team clear the Marines of any wrong doing so they can be buried with full military honours? **

**Thanks again for the support of my story. L**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**A/N** The next few chapters focus on various aspects of the investigation and were written to push myself into writing a more in depth and (hopefully) plausible case file. Hang in here with me - I promise you that there is plenty of Tony/Gibbs action, drama, hurt, comfort and angst on the way. Including some chapters that _I can't wait _for you to read! But you have to climb to the top of the ladder before you can enjoy the slide. L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 5**

The following morning, when Gibbs arrived at his senior field agent's hospital room, he found the bed empty. Quickly looking to the recliner in the corner of the room, he bit back a grin when he saw the younger man, impatiently tapping his fingers and jigging his legs while fighting the hospital gown to keep his modesty intact.

'_That's more like it,' _Gibbs thought, recalling Tony lying still and deeply sedated just 24 hours earlier.

Tony's eyes darted toward the door.

"Boss! Finally!" he exclaimed. "I've been waiting for hours!"

"It's zero six hundred, DiNozzo," Gibbs said with mock exasperation.

"You brought my clothes?" he said eyeing the overnight bag.

Gibbs placed the bag on the empty bed. "Doc been by yet?"

"Doc's here now," came the reply from the doorway as Commander Christopher Fenner arrived with Tony's chart in his hands.

The men introduced themselves and watched as Tony moved in painful increments from the chair to the bed, so the doctor could conduct his examination. Attempting to mask his discomfort, Tony leaned on the overnight bag and the room filled with the sound of flatulence.

"Okay, now _that_ wasn't me," Tony tried to explain.

"Don't be embarrassed, Tony," Commander Fenner deadpanned. "I'm a doctor, I've heard worse."

Gibbs moved to the far side of the room, giving Tony a modicum of privacy, but not before he noticed his upper torso and arms littered with vivid purple and black bruises and angry red abrasions where the bitumen had made harsh contact and scraped away the skin.

"How's the pain?" the doctor asked.

"Not bad," Tony replied.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs warned.

"Boss, I'm fine…it looks much worse than it is and I - _ahh!_" he yelped when the doctor pressed against the bruising on his ribs. "Okay…so I'm a little sore."

"What about the headaches?"

"Much better," Tony answered.

"On a scale of one to ten?" the doctor asked.

"Seven."

The doctor shone his penlight into the ailing man's eyes, causing him to grunt and jerk his head away as he squeezed his eyelids closed tight.

"Okay…_now_ it's a twelve!" Tony growled.

"So I see," Commander Fenner replied. "I need you to keep your head still and follow my finger with your eyes."

He extended his index finger and moved it several times from right to left; then up and down, while Tony attempted to follow the movement with his eyes. He swallowed quickly as bile built up at the back of his throat.

"Any dizziness or nausea?" the doctor asked.

"Not until…you made me…do that," Tony struggled against the bile burning in the back of his throat.

"You wanna keep wearing those shoes, Doc, you better hand him that basin," Gibbs warned, immediately recognising the warning signs.

Several moments later, the basin had been removed and Tony lay back against the raised bed head, sipping on some water.

Commander Fenner shook his head. "I'd like to keep you another day, just to be sure."

"Oh, come on, Doc!" Tony protested. "I'm feeling much better than yesterday and until you started flashing your penlight and poking and prodding, I was doing fine."

The doctor and Gibbs stared accusingly at him.

"Okay, so maybe not fine, but much better. Just let me go and I give you my word that I'll rest at home."

The doctor considered his decision carefully before finally giving his conditional consent. Tony was to continue with bed rest for at least another two days and make an appointment to see him on day three.

They left him to dress in private and, as the doctor called for the mandatory wheel chair to transport Tony from the hospital, Gibbs voiced his concerns.

"How's he really doing?"

"He's definitely much improved from yesterday and even from last night but I'm still concerned that his symptoms flared with so little provocation," the doctor explained. "He's right though, he'll get more benefit from resting at home then from stressing out here. Does he live alone?"

Gibbs nodded.

"It's not ideal but as long as someone checks in with him regularly, makes sure that he eats something and takes his meds, he should be okay. But if there's any sign of confusion or disorientation, I want him back here, stat."

"Understood."

"I'll get his release papers and he's all yours," Fenner said.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

In deference to his ailing agent, Gibbs drove to Tony's apartment at a very sedate pace. Beside him, Tony closed his eyes and leant his head back against the headrest to avoid seeing the scenery pass in a blur. He was unusually quiet and almost asleep by the time Gibbs parked the car.

The short walk from the parking space to the elevator was almost Tony's undoing and he was ridiculously pleased as the door to his apartment came into view. Using his spare key, Gibbs opened the door and keyed in the code to deactivate the alarm. Then, with a hand on Tony's bicep for support, he led the unusually compliant younger man into the living room and assisted him onto the couch.

Kicking off his shoes, Tony lay back on his expensive leather couch, enormously grateful to be home. As he felt himself start to drift, an annoying nudge brought him back to reality and he cracked open an eye to see a hand and two pills shoved almost under his nose.

He groaned as he propped himself on his elbows, washed the pills down with a few gulps from a bottle of water and immediately lowered himself back to the couch.

Gibbs walked into the kitchen and began opening the cupboards and refrigerator in search of nourishment. He reached into the refrigerator and removed something unrecognisable – something he was sure he had seen Abby harvesting in one of her fungi experiments. Raising an eyebrow in Tony's direction, he threw the object into the trash.

"DiNozzo! You ever hear of grocery shopping?" he asked.

"If you recall, Gibbs, I was undercover for a month and in Georgia before that. I've hardly been here," Tony slurred, already feeling the pull of the pain pills. " S'okay, I'll order take-out if I get hungry."

"The hell you will, Ducky will have my head," Gibbs replied quickly making a mental list of the staple groceries needed.

Gibbs walked to the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony and opened them just enough to allow some fresh air and a gentle breeze in and then opened a window in Tony's bedroom. He placed a bottle of water beside the bed and fed the goldfish, Zeus and Apollo who were swimming happily around the model red Ferrari submerged at the bottom of their bowl. Returning to the living room, he expected to find Tony asleep on the couch but instead found him sitting up, his glazed eyes staring into space.

He placed the tablets, another bottle of water and Tony's cell on the coffee table within his agent's reach and then sat at the other end of the couch.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, seeing the telltale signs of the pain pills kicking in.

Already Tony's reactions were dulled and there was a short pause before he responded.

"Ah…Boss, ah…seems a bit silly really…" he laughed nervously.

"Spill."

"Well, 's'bout the Gremlin," he answered sibilantly.

"The Gremlin?" Gibbs repeated.

"Mmm…you know…the car that…ah…"

"Used you as a hood ornament, yeah, I remember," Gibbs said, doubting he'd ever erase the vision from his mind. "What about it?"

"Well…it's just, it's kinda…embarrassing that's all…you know…to get taken out by a _Gremlin_. I mean…come on, what kind of person gets run down by a Gremlin?" Tony rambled sleepily.

"You do, DiNozzo!"

"That's what I mean, Boss… it doesn't fit my profile."

"You have a profile of the type of car you'd prefer to run you down?"

"You don't?" Tony asked with genuine surprise. "No…'cause you don't. Must be the pills talkin' 'cos I'm saying crazy things that I don't even understand."

Another long silence followed and, for a moment, Gibbs thought Tony had fallen asleep with his eyes open. He gave him a gentle nudge and the younger man started speaking again, probably without noticing he'd stopped.

"It's just that…it would have been more…in keeping with my image…if it had been a Ferrari like Magnum's… or…or…an Aston Martin like James Bond's…you know, Boss…a really hot car….not a _Gremlin_."

Gibbs shook his head, noting the glassy eyes looking wildly around the room but not really seeing anything. Placing his palm against Tony's chest, he guided the unresisting man until he was lying back on the couch.

"If McGee and Ziva find out…that I…I got flattened by a Gremlin…I'll never hear the end of it," Tony lamented.

"I'll do my best to kill any rumours," Gibbs assured him.

"Thank you, Boss," Tony said, his eyes finally closing. "That means a lot…a lot to me."

"Probably shoulda told me that before they read the accident report," Gibbs replied, a grin teasing the corner of his mouth as his senior field agent groaned with embarrassment. He placed the cell in Tony's hand, wrapping his fingers around it, reminiscent of another time several years ago in an isolation unit.

"Keep the cell with you and stay on the couch or in the bed, clear?"

"Crysss-tal," came Tony's slurred and sleepy reply.

"You need anything or you start feeling worse, you call me!" Gibbs said, frowning when there was no reply. "Hey, DiNozzo!"

"On your six, Boss!" Tony said automatically as his eyes snapped open for a short moment before heavy lids slammed down again and sleep took him.

Gibbs shook his head again and covered the sleeping man with the afghan folded at the foot of the couch.

"Not this time, Tony," he said quietly before letting himself out of the apartment and heading for the Navy Yard.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs was surprised to see Ducky's Morgan still parked in its regular spot and knew that the ME and his assistant had worked through the night. Signing in through the lobby security point, he entered the elevator, pressed the down button and headed to the autopsy rooms.

Palmer, still wearing his scrubs, stopped mopping the floor and greeted Gibbs with a tired smile as the agent glanced around for the older man.

"Ducky here?"

"Doctor Mallard's in his office completing the paperwork," Jimmy replied.

Ducky was just closing a file as Gibbs arrived.

"Ah, Jethro! I'm beginning to think Abigail is right – you have an uncanny sense of timing," Ducky remarked.

"Long night, Duck?"

"You could say that, yes," Ducky replied, wearily. "The grenade exploding at point blank range and the concussion effect of the blast that was amplified by the bunker itself, caused catastrophic injuries to these young men. It took an inordinate amount of time to examine, categorize and thoroughly document each injury for the report."

"What's the short version?" Gibbs asked.

Ducky sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Like Palmer, he was still wearing his scrubs. He led Gibbs into the main autopsy area, placed an x-ray on the viewer box and flicked the switch underneath. As the board illuminated, Gibbs could see the x-ray of two forearms, each without a hand attached and severed jaggedly above the wrist.

"Lance Corporal Oliver," Gibbs stated.

"As we had already determined," Ducky replied, "the corporal was in possession of the grenade when it exploded, tragically blowing off both of his hands. He also sustained multiple devastating wounds to his abdomen and extreme head trauma – anyone of those injuries would have led to his death but suffered simultaneously - the poor lad didn't have a chance…death would have been almost instantaneous."

"And Wells?"

"Unfortunately, our sergeant major fared only marginally better. Like the corporal, his internal injuries, head trauma and fractures were quite devastating, but we also removed large piece of shrapnel from his chest that appears to have caused an acute traumatic rupture of the thoracic aorta."

The elderly ME registered the lead agent's blank look. Always looking for an opportunity to broaden and enhance the training and knowledge of his young assistant, Ducky turned to cast his gaze on the young man.

"Mr Palmer?" Ducky called. "Acute traumatic rupture of the thoracic aorta?"

"Yes, Doctor," Jimmy replied, almost falling over his feet in his eagerness to showcase his knowledge. "Sometimes known as a traumatic aortic disruption or transection, it is a condition in which the aorta, the largest artery in the body, is torn or ruptured as the result of trauma…in this case the shrapnel. The condition is frequently fatal due to the profuse bleeding that results from the rupture."

"Very good, Mr Palmer!" Ducky praised the young man. "If you were half as good with that mop you're wielding, you could have been half way home by now."

Jimmy shrugged good-naturedly and kept mopping.

"You get a chance to have a look at the psych report, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

"As a matter of fact, Jethro, I have just finished reviewing the psychological report of Lance Corporal Oliver," the ME replied. "Commander Adrian Murray, the chief psychologist at the Naval hospital at Camp Lejeune has compiled a very thorough and insightful report."

"What do you think?"

"Well, based on the information in the files, when Lance Corporal Oliver returned from Afghanistan, he was suffering from depression, insomnia and mood swings."

"PTSD?" Gibbs asked. "That's a natural reaction, Duck, he'd just lost eight of twelve men. Doesn't look good for him though."

"Actually, Jethro, Commander Murray diagnosed it closer to survivor's guilt – the overwhelming struggle to understand why he was spared when so many of his fellow squad members were not."

"How was he treated?"

"By all accounts, the corporal was very angry and resentful of his enforced R & R. He was uncooperative, hostile even, in the first weeks of therapy," Ducky said. "Commander Murray was concerned at Oliver's irrational eagerness to rush back to the dangers of Afghanistan, seemingly without thought of his own wellbeing."

"He wanted revenge for his squad, despite the cost," Gibbs said plainly.

"Are you speaking from experience, Jethro, or is that your famous gut I hear? "

Gibbs shrugged but remained silent.

"Yes, well apparently there was an enormous breakthrough about two weeks ago. The commander never understood why but the corporal was calmer, more receptive to addressing his issues and most importantly, he showed an overwhelming desire to survive his next tour and return to his family and friends."

"The shrink never found out why?"

"No but he was certain that the corporal had turned the corner, as it were, and he was mentally prepared for his next tour," Ducky replied. "In my opinion, despite his altercation with the sergeant major, Lance Corporal Oliver did not appear to be the type of man who would take his own life, or that of a fellow Marine."

"Thanks, Duck. Been a long night, you should head home for a few hours".

As Gibbs headed toward the exit, Ducky called. "Oh, Jethro, any news on Anthony? I'm afraid we've been so busy here that I haven't had a chance to speak with his doctor."

"Took him home this morning," Gibbs replied.

"Oh my," Ducky replied, not hiding his concern. "You mean you left him alone?"

"He's a grown man, Duck, besides, can't spare anyone to sit with him at the moment," Gibbs said. "I'll call him in a few hours, make sure he's okay. Long as he doesn't get hungry before we can restock his kitchen, he'll be fine."

"Um…Agent Gibbs," Jimmy ventured. "I'm almost done here, I'd be happy to pick up some groceries and check on Tony."

"Mr Palmer, you have just worked a 20 hour shift and, if I'm not mistaken, you have a paper on the vascular system due this afternoon," Ducky scolded. "I was sending you home to get some rest."

"I have my books with me, Doctor. While Tony's sleeping I can finish my paper," Jimmy replied. "His apartment is closer anyway and I can always crash there for a few hours if I need to."

"That'll work," Gibbs said handing Palmer the key to Tony's apartment and his credit card for the groceries. "Thanks, Palmer."

Jimmy beamed at the rare acknowledgement from the lead agent. "It's absolutely no problem, Sir, ah, Agent Gibbs, I am more than happy to help and you can rest assured, I'll see to it that Tony eats sensibly, takes his meds and gets plenty of rest."

He chanced a looked at his displeased mentor.

"Um…if there's nothing else, Doctor, I'll…ah…I'll be going."

Ducky nodded his head curtly and Jimmy headed towards the elevator, eager to contribute to the team and attend to his unsuspecting patient.

"Mr Palmer?" Ducky called. "Make sure the groceries you purchase include fruit and vegetables. That young man's usual diet of burritos and pizza is not conducive to aiding his convalescence."

"Yes, Doctor Mallard," Jimmy replied.

"And…you might think about changing out of your scrubs before you leave and…unless you want to face charges of stealing government property, you might also consider leaving the mop here."

"Oh," Jimmy blushed. "Of course, Doctor."

As he made his way back through the autopsy room and into the adjoining rooms, Ducky shook his head at Gibbs.

"I'm not sure who I feel sorrier for, Mr Palmer or Anthony," he said. Gibbs' lips quirked into a smile and he headed for the elevators.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

McGee and Ziva were already hard at work when Gibbs strode back into the bullpen.

"How's Tony, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Resting at home," he replied succinctly. "What have you got?"

McGee typed a command into his computer and gestured toward the large plasma screen where a photo of a lean muscular man in his late fifties appeared.

"John Corbin, aka _Jack_ Corbin is CEO and major shareholder of Corbin Ordnance Limited or COL," McGee read from his computer. "Recipient of the Bronze star, Corbin did two tours of the Gulf but was honourably discharged from the Marine Corps when he was shot in the knee and required a reconstruction and intensive physiotherapy. His younger brother, Henry Corbin, was killed six months later when, under heavy enemy fire, his M249 light machine gun jammed and allowed the enemy close enough to lob a grenade into his foxhole."

McGee clicked the remote once again and a photo of COL's large manufacturing plant appeared.

"Corbin started his ordnance company, vowing to manufacture quality weapons and ordnance for the guys in the armed forces and on the frontline. COL also manufactures rifles and hand guns for sporting shooters and hunters but primarily they produce weapons and explosive ordnance for the US armed forces."

"You speak to NCIS Fraud Division yet, checked this guy's financials?"

"I'm meeting with Harris from the Fraud Division in about…ah…actually…ten minutes ago," McGee grimaced.

"Go now," Gibbs instructed. "I want to know everything about him financially from how he made his first dollar, to how he scored a three billion dollar defence contract."

"On it, Boss," McGee replied as he gathered the file on his desk and hurried to the staircase for his appointment upstairs with the guys in the Fraud Division.

"Ziva, what have you got on the two dead Marines?" Gibbs asked.

Clutching two files to her chest, Ziva picked up the remote, pointed it towards the large plasma and clicked once. The image on the screen split, with Lance Corporal Dean Oliver on the left and Sergeant Major Thomas Wells on the right.

"Lance Corporal Dean Oliver; married for 2 years – no children. His service record is exemplary and his superiors had placed his name on the promotions list to be announced in a few months time. He had already completed two tours of Afghanistan and was about to return for his third," Ziva reported. "He had an impressive list of commendations for such a young man; a Meritorious Service Medal with one gold star, Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal for bravery and various campaign and service awards."

"What about Wells?" Gibbs asked.

"Sergeant Major Thomas Wells; married for 15 years, 3 children," Ziva said. "He had two tours of Iraq and one of Afghanistan before he badly damaged the cartilage in his shoulder and was forced to return home. He was given the opportunity to retire on full pension; however, he underwent extensive rehabilitation and accepted the position of Training/Operations Chief at Camp Lejeune. Like Oliver, the sergeant major had and an exemplary service record and had also been awarded the Meritorious Service Medal with gold star, Navy Marine Corps Commendation Medal, with gold star, the Navy Marine Corps Achievement Medal, with three gold stars and various campaign and service awards."

Gibbs' head gave an almost imperceptible shake. "Damn fine Marines," he said softly. "Any previous connections between them?"

"Not as far as I can determine, they had never met before Oliver's unit returned from Afghanistan and was assigned to Camp Lejeune," Ziva replied.

"The psych report said that Oliver was being treated for survivor's guilt. He wanted to get back to the fighting in Afghanistan - place himself in harms way," Gibbs said

"Perhaps he needed to extract revenge for the loss of his squad, yes?" Ziva asked.

Gibbs nodded his agreement. "There was a change in attitude about two weeks ago; he was desperate to finish his tour in one piece and return home. His wife give you any idea why that might have happened?"

"I believe so," Ziva said. "Linda Oliver confirmed that her husband returned from his last tour depressed, angry and overwhelmed with guilt and grief. However, she found out that she was expecting their first child approximately two weeks ago. They had been trying to conceive for two years. Mrs Oliver claims her husband was extremely happy about the baby."

"If anything's gonna make ya wanna live, that'd do it," Gibbs replied, speaking from personal experience.

"According to Mrs Oliver, the evening she told him she was pregnant, her husband told her about the fight between him and the sergeant major. He admitted that he had over-reacted and felt foolish. He went for a drive to clear his head and came home a few hours later with a crib for the new baby. They spent the night putting it together and discussing baby names."

"She know where he went?"

"No, but I do," Ziva replied. "Sergeant Major Wells' wife, Tammy, said that Lance Corporal Oliver arrived at their home unexpectedly that night, with a six pack and a pizza and asked to speak privately with the sergeant. The two men sat outside and spoke for over an hour. Mrs Wells did not know what they spoke about but said both men appeared relaxed and exchanged a hand shake when Oliver left."

Gibbs nodded thoughtfully.

"Gibbs, Tony is at home alone, yes?"

"Palmer's on his way to check on DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "I'm going for coffee then I'll be with Abby. Tell McGee I want a briefing on his meeting with the fraud guys when I get back."

Gibbs walked toward the elevator; more certain than ever that the death of the Marines was neither murder nor suicide and desperately hoping his favourite forensic scientist could break the case open.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Next Chapter – The team get the evidence they need to determine the reason for the death of the Marines. Palmer practises his "bedside manner" on a rather uncooperative senior field agent. The investigation turns to Jack Corbin of COL and Abby gets some exciting news!

Thank you for reading, and to those who have placed this story on alert or onto their favourites list. Much more to come! L


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

A/N Some fairly detailed forensic information coming up, so if I "lose you," please feel free to drop me a PM and I'll be happy to clarify anything for you - from a writing perspective, it's important for me to know if I haven't been clear enough on some points, L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 6**

"Gibbs! I knew it would be you!" Abby exclaimed as the elevator decanted the lead agent onto the level of the forensics lab. As he entered Abby's domain, the Goth scientist asked "Do you know what this means, Gibbs?"

"Hopefully it means that you've got something for me, Abs," Gibbs replied, a coffee held in his right hand and a Caf-Pow in his left.

"Oh, much better than that, my silver fox – it means that our planets are once again aligned and we are as one with the universe," she replied, closing her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply with a serene smile on her pale face. "Our ethereal energies are once again united in their divine search for understanding."

"Right now, I'd settle for divine understanding of how those Marines were killed," Gibbs said, handing Abby the Caf-Pow.

"Then you've come to the right place," Abby replied taking a noisy slurp of her caffeinated beverage. "As we suspected, there wasn't enough grenade fragments found to humpty dumpty the grenade back together but as each of the fragments were coated in the filler or explosive mix of the grenade, I was able to analyse the compounds used."

"Anything interesting?"

"Gibbs!" she scolded. "Forensics is always interesting."

"If you say so, Abs."

"The explosive filler in an M67 fragmentation grenade manufactured in the US is known as Compound B. Compound B is generally a 60/40 mix of cyclotrimethylene trinitramine, known as RDX, and Trinitrotoluene."

"TNT," Gibbs added.

"Correct, my chemically clued-in cutie, er, I mean Gibbs," Abby replied. "In this particular grenade, the mix was more like 90/10 but the elements used to make up the RDX were highly unstable. This compound would never pass US safety standards, Gibbs. Either the manufacturer was taking dangerous short cuts to keep production costs down or this grenade was not manufactured in the US."

"That enough to cause the grenade to explode without warning?"

"Not on its own. It would still need the spring-loaded firing pin to snap onto the percussion cap and light the time delay fuse," Abby explained.

"So, Oliver would had to have pulled the pin and released the safety lever?"

"Normally, yes," Abby said, "but I found something interesting among the shrapnel Ducky removed from Lance Corporal Oliver."

Moving back to her computer she typed in a command and an image of a piece of wire with a small loop at one end appeared.

"This was embedded in the lance corporal's small intestine, I didn't recognise it at first because the ring pull was missing from the other end but that's the grenade pin, Gibbs," Abby explained. "As you know, as an added safety measure, the pin of a live grenade is either bent or has a small loop on the end so it prevents accidental removal. When the pin is pulled, the user must pull hard enough to either straighten the pin or flatten the loop as it comes out. The pin is made of a relatively soft metal, so it isn't difficult in the heat of combat. This pin still has its loop intact and that means…"

"That the pin was never pulled," Gibbs said. "This wasn't a murder or a murder-suicide."

"Nope, the grenade must have had a hinky detonating mechanism."

"Abs, you said if you could determine the composition of the alloys used in the grenade casing, you could identify the manufacturer?"

"No need," Abby replied. "I found the fragment with the manufacturer's mark. It was badly damaged but I managed to clean it up."

Abby's fingers flew quickly over her computer keyboard again and an image of the badly deformed fragment appeared on the monitor. Gibbs squinted and leaned toward the image.

"What does it say?"

"COL," Abby replied. "Corbin Ordnance Limited, the Department of the Navy's newest weapons and explosives ordnance contractor on the East Coast."

"Good job, Abs," Gibbs placed a quick kiss on her cheek and left the lab satisfied that the reputations of two highly decorated Marines had been restored.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Protesting muscles and bruises and the pounding of a fierce headache conspired to rouse Tony from a deep drug-induced sleep. Not yet willing to surrender into wakefulness he refused to allow the illumination of the midday sun to bleed through his closed eyelids and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

The persistent pressure in his bladder provided the catalyst needed for Tony to return to full consciousness. As he slowly manoeuvred his painfully pummelled body into a seated position, he gritted his teeth against the nauseating sensation that the earth was spinning beneath him.

The tendrils of an unrecognisable aroma drifted from the kitchen and immediately sent his stomach into spasm. He swallowed convulsively and a small moan escaped from his lips.

"Tony, are you okay?"

Palmer's unexpected voice sounded from the desk in the corner of the living room, startling him and inciting a groan of pain and a string of curses. Another bout of vertigo almost pitched him backwards over the coffee table and only sheer luck and Palmer's quick reflexes saved him from a painful fall. Jimmy grasped his forearm and shoulder to steady him while he regained his equilibrium and composure.

"Palmer?" he slurred, managing to open his eyes in a squint. "What the…what the hell are you doing here? How'd you get in? I…I gotta sit down."

Jimmy helped support his weight until he was safely situated on the couch before he explained.

"Agent Gibbs asked me to come by and make sure you were okay. He gave me his key and asked me to buy you some groceries."

"You've been watching me sleep?" Tony asked. "That's creepy, Palmer!"

"Actually, I put your groceries away and was working on a paper that's due this afternoon. Don't worry, Tony - I won't tell a soul that you drool in your sleep," the young ME teased as he straightened and walked into the kitchen to check something in the oven.

"Do not!" Tony said indignantly, sneaking a look at his pillow for any telltale wetness, just in case. He rose carefully to his feet and took two steps towards the bathroom when the room tilted dangerously to the right.

"Hey, whoa!" Jimmy said, scooting quickly back from the kitchen and grabbing Tony by the elbow before he fell on his butt. "Where are you going? You shouldn't be walking around by yourself."

"Been walking by myself since I was nine months old, Jimmy," Tony hissed, breathing deeply to ward off the dizziness. "Besides, I need to pee."

"Come on, I'll help you," Jimmy said, supporting Tony down the hall and to the bathroom door.

"I got it from here, Palmer," Tony said, closing the door quickly before the obliging young man could step into the bathroom with him.

"Oh, of course," Jimmy replied with a slight blush as the door closed in his face. "If you need me, just call, I'll be right here."

A few moments of complete silence passed.

"Palmer?"

"I'm here, Tony, are you okay, do you need anything?" Jimmy answered through the closed door.

"I can't go," Tony stated, the frustration evident in his voice.

"Really?" the med student replied with a mixture of surprise and concern. "Hmmm… while that's not a common side effect after an accident like yours, it's not unusual for the bodily functions to react strangely after a traumatic incident. Perhaps you could try turning on the faucet, the sound of the running water often..."

"Palmer!" Tony interrupted. "I can't go knowing that you're standing there listening – go away!"

"But how will I know if you need me? What if you fall and hit your head? Doctor Mallard would kill me…that's if he got to me before Agent Gibbs, of course, and don't forget Abby – she'd kill me and leave no trace of evidence – and Ziva and McGee…"

"Palmer, _please_!" Tony pleaded, the pressure from his bladder demanding immediate attention. "Get away from the damn door!"

Standing anxiously in the kitchen, Jimmy was relieved to hear the flush of the toilet and the subsequent running water from the faucet and moments later the bathroom door opened and Tony walked on wobbly legs back into the living room.

"What's that smell?" Tony asked, grimacing and cautiously rubbing his rebellious stomach,

"Oh, I thought that, since you're likely to be out of action for a while, I'd cook some healthy meals that you just have to heat up later, when you're up to it."

"You cook?" Tony mumbled. "Wait…did you say healthy? How healthy?"

"I love to cook, that is, when I have the time. Ziva gave me some lessons a while ago, in exchange for tuning her piano," Jimmy replied.

The eager exuberance of the young man was a little more than Tony could handle at the moment and he sat heavily onto the couch and rubbed his temples to ease his throbbing headache.

"You need to eat something before you take your meds," Jimmy stated. "You have a choice between soy cheese and vegetable lasagne or eggplant, squash and goat cheese frittata or eggplant casserole with tofu and olives…the eggplants were on special and they're very good for you…"

"Not hungry," Tony grumbled, willing his churning stomach to behave. "Don't want anything to eat."

"That's okay," Jimmy replied, his enthusiasm still intact. "I can divide these into meal size portions and put them in the fridge - you can eat them over the next few days. But you have to eat something now, you shouldn't have your meds on an empty stomach – toast and juice?"

"What kind of juice?"

"Let's see, I got you a choice of carrot and parsley, cabbage surprise or apple and wheat-germ."

"Water's fine…just water," Tony said wearily, as the exertion of his trip to the bathroom caught up with him.

"Oh," Palmer said, trying to hide his disappointment. "Okay, well, you just relax and I'll get you some toast and…water."

Twenty minutes later, Tony had eaten a slice of toast and washed his meds down with a glass of water. Palmer had assisted him to the bedroom where he stretched out on his comfortable king-sized bed with an audible sigh of relief.

Returning moments later with a bottle of water, Tony's meds and his cell, he placed them on the nightstand and noticed that the meds were already drawing the agent into slumber. Grabbing one end of the comforter, he drew it up to the shoulders of the near boneless man.

"I'll be outside if you need something," Jimmy said softly, watching as Tony rubbed his face into the familiar feel of his pillows.

"Thanks, Palmer," he slurred. "You'll make a wonderful wife and mother someday."

"Go to sleep, Tony," Jimmy grinned, pulling the door three quarters closed and returning to his paper on the vascular system.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

After advising SecNav that they had cleared the Marines of any wrongdoings, Director Vance instructed Ducky to make arrangements to have the bodies flown back to Camp Lejeune, where SecNav and other dignitaries would attend their funerals with full military honours.

The attention of the MCRT turned to Corbin Ordnance Limited and its major shareholder, CEO, John (Jack) Corbin. The director and Abby joined Gibbs, Ziva and McGee in the bullpen as they discussed their findings to date and McGee relayed information obtained from his meeting with the NCIS Fraud Division.

McGee looked over the huge stack of account information piled on his desk, courtesy of the Fraud Division.

"As we know, before the Department of the Navy awards a large defence contract, they conduct an extensive investigation into not only the quality of the products manufactured but the financial viability of the company and any owner, director, board member or major shareholder," McGee said, tapping his fingers on the stack of documents on his desk. "Jack Corbin's accounts, balance sheets, company and personal tax lodgements are all up to date and reveal no abnormalities."

"Go through them again," Gibbs instructed.

"The Fraud Division conducted an extensive and thorough investigation, Gibbs," Vance said.

"Six months ago, right? Before COL was awarded the contract?"

"You think someone's starting taking short cuts and skimming the profits _after_ they won the contract?" Vance asked.

"Maybe. Run the numbers again, McGee, see if anything's changed," Gibbs said.

"Boss, that's a huge amount of financial data to analyse…I'm sure the guys from Fraud would be happy to do it," McGee stated, receiving a look from Gibbs that instantly changed his mind. "But not _nearly_ as happy as I would be to…analyse this…huge..._huge_ stack of financial data."

Gibbs turned to Ziva. "When the Marine was killed by the SMAW in Afghanistan, who conducted the investigation?"

"Representatives from the DoD Ammunition and Explosives Safety Board," Ziva replied. "They conducted a full audit of every facet of COL operations from the purchase of materials, manufacturing processes and shipping processes to ensure the standard and safety measures were being met."

"Were they?"

"Yes, in fact, in many cases, COL is enforcing safety regulations above the industry standards set by the DoD and by the Sporting Arms and Ammunition Manufacturers' Institute."

"She's right, Boss," McGee added. "The guys in the Fraud Division said COL would be making almost twice their profit if they cut _back_ to industry standards."

"Three dead Marines in the last two months, involving sub-standard ordnance from COL tells me otherwise," Gibbs growled in frustration. "Abs, what would you need from COL to prove they're not cutting corners in production?"

"Okay, um, every factory, regardless of whether they manufacture ordnance or jelly beans, would have an operations manual – a play book, of sorts - for each and every step of the manufacturing process," Abby replied.

"Could they have more than one play book? One that meets industry standards and one that's used when nobody's looking?"

"It's possible, but unlikely," Abby said. "To switch from one to the other would mean down-time while machines were reset, not to mention that COL would need to hold supplies of both types of raw materials – those that meet industry standards and those that don't."

Turning back to Vance, Gibbs said.

"We need a copy of the operations manual and to have a look around the factory."

"You haven't got enough for a warrant or a subpoena," Vance said.

"I got three dead Marines."

Vance was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll talk to Legal, see what I can do."

Gibbs replied with a nod of his head.

"Pack a lunch tomorrow, Abs, you and I gotta date at an ordnance factory."

"Really, Gibbs? That's, like, so fantastic!" Abby's enthusiasm reverberated through the bullpen. "I never, _ever_, get to go anywhere and now…an ordnance factory…it's like a dream come true…all that gunpowder and high grade explosive material…what more could a girl ask for? Wait till I tell Tony!"

"Speaking of DiNozzo, any word on how he's doing?" Vance asked.

"Ah, I spoke to him about fifteen minutes ago, Sir," McGee said with a grimace.

"Problem, McGee?" Gibbs asked with concern.

"Well, I'm not really sure, Boss, I think I disturbed his sleep and he muttered something about gremlins trying to kill him. He said, first one ran him down and now there's one in his kitchen attempting death by eggplant."

Vance frowned and looked at Gibbs.

"Concussion? Relapse?" he asked.

"Painkillers," Gibbs replied matter-of-factly.

Vance gave a curt nod and turned to leave when Ziva called to him as she replaced the handset of her desk phone.

"Excuse me, Director, that was Security. Jack Corbin is in the lobby and requesting to speak with you."

Vance and Gibbs exchanged a knowing look.

"Have someone escort him up," Vance said. "Miss Scuito, I'd like you to sit in on this meeting."

"Yes, Sir," Abby replied. She waited until Vance and Gibbs were out of earshot and she whispered softly to McGee and Ziva.

"Me, in a meeting with Gibbs, the director and a suspect! That's, like, another _totally_ new experience for me! I am _so_ loving this case!" And with pigtails flying she skipped from the bullpen to join Gibbs and Vance by the elevators.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

After brief introductions, they took their places at the conference table in the Director's office.

"Mr Corbin," Vance started. "You came to us, what can we do for you?"

"I heard about the death of the two Marines at Camp Lejeune," Corbin replied. "I called your field office there and they told me the Washington office was investigating. I have to know…was it a COL grenade?"

"You have reason to think it might be?" Vance asked.

"I pray to God that it wasn't," Corbin replied, "but my company manufactures several thousand M67 grenades every week and ships them to US Navy and Marine bases here and overseas – if there is some kind of fault in production, I need to shutdown operation and recall the ordnance already shipped."

"That what you did when the Marine was killed in Afghanistan using one of your SMAW's?" Gibbs asked.

Corbin looked like he'd been kicked in the gut.

"As you are no doubt aware, the remains of the SMAW that malfunctioned, never made it back Stateside for any investigation, independent or otherwise," Corbin said. "In answer to your question Agent Gibbs, yes, we conducted our own quality control review and additional testing to ensure that it would never happen again."

"Was that before or after the DoD Ammunition and Explosives Safety Board conducted their full audit?" Gibbs asked.

"It was conducted _simultaneously_ with the DoD AESB. We cooperated fully with their investigation and we welcomed their expert opinion. They found no fault with the production of the SMAW's."

"No consolation for the family of the dead Marine."

"And no consolation for me I can assure you, Agent Gibbs!" Corbin shot back angrily.

"That why you paid the family two hundred thousand dollars, Corbin? Guilt money?"

"I made no secret of that payment. It appears in the financial records of the company for anyone to see!" Corbin disputed loudly. "I have spent 19 years of my life building a company that manufactures quality weapons and ordnance for our armed forces. Next week, I'm due to fly to Geneva, Switzerland to lead a symposium aimed at raising the international safety standards of weapons manufacturing. The death of that young Marine, due to the possible malfunction of one of my products, was devastating. I couldn't bring their father back to those two children, so did what I could to ease their financial burden. Guilt money? You can call it what you like."

"We would like to send Miss Scuito and Agent Gibbs to your factory tomorrow," Vance told him. "We require full access to your manufacturing plant and the full cooperation of your employees. We will also require copies of your operation manuals. We'll start with the M67's."

"I'll show you around myself," Corbin said. "I brought a copy of the manual for the M67's with me today. I'm happy to leave it with you."

Vance nodded, sliding the large manual down the table to Abby.

"Zero eight hundred?" Gibbs asked.

"I'll have someone meet you at the gate and sign you in," Corbin replied.

"The agent outside the door will see you out," Vance said, effectively ending the meeting.

When the door closed behind Corbin, Vance turned to the senior agent.

"Seems legit."

"Or he's a good liar," Gibbs added. "Either way, we need to find out what's going on in that plant before anyone else gets hurt."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

When Tony emerged from his most recent slumber, his apartment was in darkness with the exception of the dim light coming from the hallway. Warm and comfortable he stretched his long limbs, realising his mistake almost immediately as deeply bruised tissue and muscles screamed in protest. Breathing deeply through the pain, he realised, to his great relief that his blinding headache had reduced to a persistent throb and his nausea had turned to hunger.

He carefully levered himself to his feet, took care of business in the adjoining bathroom and used the wall to assist him to walk to the kitchen in search of food. The fluorescent light in the kitchen blinked to life sending searing pain shooting to Tony's brain and exacerbating his headache. He flicked the switch to turn it off, relying on the refrigerator light to guide him in his quest for food.

Palmer had left a note stuck to the door of his refrigerator, apologising that he had to leave before Tony woke and leaving heating instructions for the meals he had prepared.

Although his nausea had dissipated, eggplant, goat cheese, soy, tofu and squash did nothing to boost his appetite.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, placed his favourite Miles Davis CD on the stereo and as the music softly came to life, he eased his aching body back onto the couch and closed his eyes.

The sound of a key unlocking his door brought a smile to his face and the tantalising aroma of pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese filled his apartment and caused his stomach to awaken with a loud rumble.

"I love you, Boss," he said, without opening his eyes.

Gibbs snorted, placing the pizza box on the coffee table.

"Told you before, DiNozzo, cupboard love doesn't count."

"I'll get back to you on that as soon as I've eaten my fill," Tony said, groaning softly as he attempted to sit up.

"Heard about the eggplant – thought you might be hungry."

"Palmer and his fricken eggplant," Tony said around a mouthful of pizza. "It looks like a health food store threw up in my refrigerator!"

Gibbs watched as Tony scoffed down the slice of pizza in record time.

"I take it you're feeling better?"

"Yeah, Boss, I really am," Tony replied. "I slept all day though – hope that doesn't mean I'll be awake all night."

"The doc's got you on the good stuff. Take your meds - you'll sleep."

Tony's appetite disappeared after his second slice and he washed his meds down with a mouthful of water. They discussed the Camp Lejeune case until Gibbs noticed the younger man's green eyes glazing over and his speech becoming more slurred. He cleared a space in the refrigerator for the pizza, grabbed another bottle of water and returned to assist Tony to his feet.

"Hey, Boss, didn't you say Ducky would have your head if I had pizza?"

"You tell him and we'll both be eating eggplant."

"He won't hear it from me," Tony grinned dopily.

"Hit the rack," he instructed, giving him a gentle push towards the bedroom. He watched as Tony staggered like a drunkard down the hallway and called out after him.

"And, DiNozzo…lose the whiskers." Tony waved a hand in silent acknowledgement and disappeared into his bedroom as Gibbs let himself out and headed for his own bed.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo000oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Next Chapter - Abby and Gibbs take an outing to COL. What's with Jack Corbin - good man or good liar? Gibbs intends to find out.

Thank you so much for reading. Reminder - this is a 25 chapter story that requires a lot of lead up and background information. Action hots up in a chapter or two and then it's Tony and Gibbs and the team - all the way home! L


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 7**

The agency vehicle negotiated the early morning traffic on its journey out of the city to Corbin Ordnance Limited. From the passenger seat, the irritating sound of a straw desperately searching the bottom of a carton for that last evasive drop of Caf-Pow, finally stretched Gibbs' limited patience to the max.

"Abs, give it a rest."

"Oh, sorry, Gibbs," she replied sheepishly. "I guess I'm a little nervous or…maybe excited…or maybe both…nervously excited…I mean…I _never_ get to go anywhere, Gibbs, _never ever_…and yet here I am…and here you am…are…on our way to gather some evidence that will hopefully break this case wide open. This is a very big moment for me, Gibbs. There's a lot riding on this trip of ours, but I'm confident that we – you and me – are up to the task. I just have one question…what _exactly_ are we looking for?"

"Jack Corbin's arranged access for us to see every facet of the manufacturing process, from the storage of raw materials, the casting of the metals, the mixing and blending of the explosives."

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning!" Abby's bright grin faded as she looked at Gibbs' blank face. "Come on Gibbs! Robert Duvall? Apocalypse Now?" She sighed audibly. "I miss Tony.

"You read through the operations manual for the M67 grenades that Corbin gave you yesterday?" he asked.

"Gibbs!" she scolded. "That thing is, like, two thousand eight hundred pages of text containing highly complex scientific and manufacturing data! I only had, like, three hours to read it - I'm good but I'm not _that_ good."

Gibbs looked at her sceptically. "How far did you get?"

"Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-seven," she confessed, chewing her lower lip in embarrassment that she hadn't completed the last thirty-three pages. "There are quite a few things that just don't add up."

"Like?"

"I can tell you more once we've seen the actual production but from what I've read in the processing manual, the grenade that killed the two Marines was made from completely different alloys than those listed in the COL operations manual _and _the explosive components used were also quite different."

"I don't know what's going on there, Abs, but something's…"

"Hinky," Abby finished. "There's a whole lotta hinkiness, Gibbs."

They had only driven a few more miles when Abby grew tired of the dull voices droning from the radio. She reached her hand to the dial, changed the station and smiled in delight as her favourite Brain Matter song burst through the speakers.

"Hey, I was listening to that!" Gibbs protested in a quirky role reversal.

"Gibbs," Abby replied with a cheeky grin. "You must be the last person in America left listening to AM radio. You know, when the AM frequency is eventually phased out, all you'll hear is static."

"I'd prefer static to that stuff you listen to, Abs," Gibbs said switching the radio off with an irritated flick of his wrist.

Barely two minutes later, Abby started to drum her fingers to the beat of the song still playing in her head. First on the console, then the passenger door and finally on her knees until Gibbs threw out a hand and caught her by the wrist.

"Geez, Abs, ya think you can sit still for 10 more minutes!" he said not bothering to hide his irritation.

Abby's face softened. "I miss him, Gibbs," she said. "It's like, totally different when he's not here! Why won't you admit it?"

"Tony?"

"Yes, Gibbs, Tony! This is me you're talking to! I know you miss him as much as I do! "

"Hell, Abs, with the slurping, the movie reference, changing the radio station and drumming the fingers, I hardly noticed he was gone!" he told her with a glint of humour in his crystal blue eyes.

"You're _sure_ he was okay this morning?" Abby asked seriously, ignoring Gibbs' exasperated sigh.

"Like I told you the last four times you asked…I went by his apartment before I picked you up, he was still sleeping. He looked fine. He needs rest so I didn't wake him. If you're still worried, we can call him when we're done here," he said sighing in exasperation.

"Okay," she replied somewhat subdued.

"Tony's fine, Abs," he said attempting to reassure her. "He's bounced back from a lot worse than this."

They sat quietly for the remainder of the trip, both of them giving thanks for Tony's endurance and ability to beat the odds and wondering just how many times he would be asked to put that attribute to the test.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Standing with his palms braced against the tiled wall, the hot water pulsating from the showerhead dispensed an odd combination of pain and pleasure as it cascaded over his bruised body. He reached for the shampoo and began to massage it into his scalp, hissing when his fingers made contact with the sizeable lump just above his left ear. He rinsed his hair and allowed the water to massage some of the soreness from his muscles then stepped gingerly from the shower cubicle, well before he really wanted to.

He grimaced at the spectrum of colours the abrasions and bruising had brought to his body then wrapped a towel low around his hips and padded, bare-foot, toward the kitchen. He was relieved that the dizziness and nausea had dissipated somewhat and although the painkillers and muscle relaxants left him feeling lethargic and his brain foggy, his headache and light sensitivity had lessened considerably.

He opened his refrigerator hoping to find more than Palmer's exotic eggplant delicacies. His eyes widened and he flashed the trademark DiNozzo grin when his gaze fell upon a bottle of fresh milk, eggs, tomatoes, bacon, apples, cold cuts, lettuce and carton of orange juice.

"Now we're talking!" he said aloud.

He opened the small pantry and was delighted to find it similarly replenished.

"Cupboard love is underrated, Boss!" Tony said, knowing that Gibbs must have returned early this morning and restocked his kitchen.

His appetite hadn't quite returned but his stomach growled loudly when he spied an unopened box of his favourite breakfast cereal. Mindful of his abused muscles he reached high into the pantry for the box of Cheerios and grabbed the milk from the refrigerator.

He finished his bowl of cereal, groaning as he rose to his feet to rinse his plate and spoon and return the milk. He walked slowly back to his bedroom and dressed in a pair of old sweats and his favourite, well-worn OSU t-shirt.

As he looked at the pill bottles lined up on his nightstand, he was already hatching a plan that would, hopefully, allow his early return to work. He felt a misplaced guilt that his specialist training with the Contingency Response Team, followed by his undercover assignment and now his injury, had left his team one man short for almost two months.

He knew he should continue to take the prescribed meds but he hated how tired they made him – he didn't want to sleep all day and all night. He wanted to be at work, helping his team to break the case they were currently working. As much as he loved undercover work, during the last few weeks he had missed the investigative side of his job; the adrenalin rush of finding a lead or a clue that suddenly puts the final piece in the puzzle and nails a suspect.

He decided to compromise - he took the anti-inflammatory but made do without the sleep inducing painkillers and muscle relaxants – besides, they made him a little loopy. Tylenol, hot showers and very light stretching should help ease the aches and stiffness from his bruised body without spending all day and night sleeping. Without conscious thought, he rubbed his knuckles against his light beard and pushed the bottle of painkillers away.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

McGee didn't recognise the Hebrew words hissed vehemently from across the bullpen but he certainly recognised the tone of the sentiment.

"You okay, Ziva?" he asked his partner, already knowing the answer.

"No, McGee, I am _not_ okay!" she replied. "Gibbs and Abby have gone to Corbin Ordnance, Tony is at home and Gibbs wants me to check the backgrounds of all 140 employees of COL before he returns. It simply is not possible!"

"I know how you feel. The boss wants me to review the last six months trading figures for COL looking for major fluctuations in operating capital. I'll give you a hand when I finish but it won't be for a few hours."

"We do not even have any suspects to narrow our search. This could be a wild goose chase."

"Hey!" McGee smiled in surprise. "Nice work with the idiom!"

"Thank you, McGee, but it is not as much fun saying them incorrectly when Tony is not here!" she said with a wink. "It drives him crazy, yes?"

"Drives him up the hall!" McGee agreed.

"Tell me, McGee, why is it that whenever we have a case with huge amounts of paperwork, Tony is always missing?"

"Come now, my dear, surely you are not suggesting that Anthony stepped in front of that motor vehicle to avoid assisting you with the paperwork?" Ducky asked as he entered the bullpen and placed a report on Gibbs' desk.

"No, Ducky, of course not. It just seems that whenever we have an abundance of paperwork, Tony is nowhere to be found."

"Do either of you truly believe that Anthony advanced to the position of _senior _field agent on Leroy Jethro Gibbs' team, without having done his fair share of paperwork? I can assure you, he would not! Perhaps you are unaware that for several months before Caitlyn joined us, Jethro and Anthony worked as a two-man team. Who do you think did the lion's share of the so-called "grunt" work back then, hmmm? I suggest you keep that in mind the next time you believe Anthony is shirking his responsibilities. That young man has paid his dues."

"Yes, Ducky," Ziva said, somewhat chastened. "At least it is quiet enough for us to work without being bombarded with paperclips and spit-balls and Tony's constant interruptions, yes?"

Ducky studied her with wise eyes.

"Me thinks you doth protest too much, my dear!" he said softly as she returned his warm smile with a shy grin. Chuckling softly to himself, Ducky gave McGee a quick wink and as he turned to leave the bullpen, McGee called after him.

"Ducky, did you know that Tony had been offered his own team in Rota?" he asked.

"Yes, Timothy, I did," the ME replied. "Our dearly departed former director, Jenny Shepard, offered Anthony the position some time ago. She was most impressed with the way he conducted himself as team leader while Jethro was on his Mexican sabbatical. Of course, at that time, only she knew that Anthony was also involved in an undercover assignment. An extraordinary effort considering his extremely heavy workload."

"Why did he turn the position down?" Ziva asked.

"Perhaps that's a question best asked of Anthony, my dear," Ducky suggested, not willing to break a confidence.

"I can't believe Tony didn't tell us," McGee said, casting his mind back to a conversation when his senior field agent could have gloated about the offer of a promotion. "All the movie trivia he subjects us to and he keeps something big like that from us."

"That young man is a chameleon – flashy, loud and colourful to distract you from seeing what he rarely shows," Ducky said.

"Which is?"

"That which is truly important to him."

With a sad smile, the older man departed for Autopsy leaving the agents to contemplate the truth of his words.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Parking the vehicle in the visitor's parking area, Gibbs and Abby walked to the security station situated next to the main entrance gate of Corbin Ordnance Limited. The guard had been apprised of their impending arrival and their visitors' passes had already been approved. He made a call and directed them to the reception lounge to wait.

Moments later the door opened and a greying man in his mid-fifties of South American appearance greeted them.

"Special Agent Gibbs, Miss Scuito, my name is Joe Castillo, I am the foreman of Corbin Ordnance Limited," he said.

"I understood that Corbin was going to show us around," Gibbs replied.

"Mr Corbin has been unavoidably detained by an important telephone call, however, he has asked me to extend you every courtesy and he will join us as soon as possible,"

Castillo explained. "Before we proceed, any valuables, cell phones, and your sidearm will need to be checked at the security station."

Abby chanced a quick peek at Gibbs, noting he did not object to securing his sidearm in the main safe. She suppressed a quick smile when the senior agent did not mention the small calibre weapon he wore in an ankle holster.

Gibbs and Abby were suitably attired in white coveralls, safety hats, glasses, shooters ear-muffs and boots and led to one of the small buses that transported the factory workers and scientists to and from the ordnance plant each day.

It was certainly an impressive complex. The administration building was situated just inside the main gates. The huge facilities that housed the raw materials, the smelting furnaces and an array of complex machinery used in the manufacture of weapons and explosives were situated approximately five minutes drive from the main gate. An additional five-minute drive found the research and development and the laboratories where the explosive components were mixed and prepared for use. To the rear of the huge property were the firing and testing ranges.

By the time they had arrived at the plant, Jack Corbin was there to greet them. Abby requested permission to carry her sample case and gather small quantities of metal alloys, and explosive elements for analysis back in her lab. Corbin agreed without hesitation, negating the need for Gibbs to present the warrant he was carrying in his back pocket. Corbin was certainly acting like a man with nothing to hide. They were both presented with a writing pad and pencils.

"What are these for?" Gibbs asked.

"In some areas of the factory, the noise level of the machinery denies conversation. If you have a question, it's best to write it down until we can discuss it later," Corbin explained.

Gibbs and Abby exchanged a quick glance knowing that they were both fluent in sign language and the noise level would not impede their communication at all.

With a sweeping movement of his arm, Corbin gestured towards the door to the smelting factory.

"Shall we?" he asked and after securing their safety earmuffs and glasses, they followed him in.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"I'm only going to say this one more time, so listen up, okay?" McGee huffed through the phone as his patience rapidly evaporated. "You are grounded, Tony, you are _not allowed_ to come out to play!"

"Aw, come on, Probie, have a heart, I'm bored as hell here!" Tony complained.

"How can you be bored, you haven't even been home from the hospital for two days – okay, don't answer that," he added quickly, knowing that, sometimes, Tony had the attention span of a gnat. "You're supposed to be recovering, not working. Go read a book!"

"Read 'em."

"Watch a movie."

"Watched 'em."

"Take a nap."

"Just woke up."

"Take another one."

"Not tired."

"Tony, I'm working here!" McGee snapped. "If I don't get this done by the time Gibbs gets back he'll be mad as hell."

"Exactly! If you email me some of the files you're working on, I can help you!" Tony replied. "Come on, McGee, I'm a short trip from crazy here!"

"Just a short trip? Keep travelling Tony, you're almost home," McGee said as he disconnected the call and returned his attention to reviewing COL's financials.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Their extensive tour of the COL facility took four hours to complete and Corbin then led Gibbs and Abby his office to discuss any questions they had or any information they required. His personal assistant had delivered a tray with coffee and muffins and a large Hawaiian Punch in lieu of Caf-Pow.

Though no means an expert in the operation of an ordnance factory, Gibbs had to acknowledge that, even from a layman's perspective, it appeared all safety regulations were strictly enforced. Corbin had bent over backwards in his efforts to be as cooperative as possible and Gibbs was still uncertain whether the man genuinely had nothing to hide or he was supremely confident that what he'd hidden would never be found. He wanted to believe this man - he was, after all, a fellow Marine – but three other Marines had died using ordnance from this factory and if negligence had played a part in their deaths, then he owed them the truth.

Although given an overview of the entire facility, it was the manufacturing of the M67 fragmentation grenades that interested them most. Abby noticed some disparities between the casting and assembling process of the grenades they'd seen manufactured on-site and the fragments of the grenade that had killed the two Marines. She had asked for, and been provided with, an empty grenade casing for comparison purposes.

Corbin had explained that the M67 grenade was mass-produced and although used in combat by the armed forces overseas, it was primarily used in the United States for training purposes when preparing troops for combat. Gibbs knew from experience that squads on the grenade training range could easily use up to five hundred M67's per base per day.

DoD safety regulations stated that five grenades per hundred be safety tested before a batch was released from the factory. COL tested twenty per hundred – four times the minimum safety standards and at a much greater cost to the manufacturer.

"I've turned down so many lucrative offers from people wanting to buy into COL that my accountant thinks I'm nuts," Corbin explained. "Believe me, before the DoD contract, it wasn't easy to keep COL running profitably. But if I retain control of this company, then I can ensure it does exactly what it was set-up to do – produce quality weapons, ammunition and explosive ordnance for our armed forces. If that means we exceed minimum safety standards and reduce profits, then so be it."

When Abby asked whether COL imported the raw materials used in the grenade casings or the explosive components from overseas, Corbin categorically denied it, stating that all raw materials were sourced from the USA. He explained that all COL's suppliers were ratified and regularly audited by the DoD and provided copies of the paperwork to prove it.

"Given the size of your production, your warehouse facility is quite small," Gibbs stated.

"When we were awarded the Navy contract we had to expand our facilities, we now have two warehousing areas, Agent Gibbs," Corbin explained. "The one you saw here on site and another situated closer to Pax River Naval Air Station. Both facilities have state of the art security and the guards rotate their shifts between the two facilities every fortnight."

"Who manages the other facility?"

"My head foreman, Joe Castillo works from the other facility three days a week and my leading hand, Mike Preston, covers the other two days – both are good men who have been with me over ten years," Corbin stated.

"We'll need a list of names of all employees of the Pax River facility."

"I'll have it faxed to your office right away but I have to ask – if you're investigating the possibility of negligence _during _the manufacturing process, why would you need the names of people who only have post-production contact?"

"Just covering all the bases," Gibbs replied, reluctant to give too much away.

"Agent Gibbs, I mentioned that I'm due to attend an international weapons manufacturers symposium next week. I assume if I am under investigation I will not be permitted to leave the country?"

"We'll let you know – appreciate your time."

Shaking hands with Corbin, he led Abby out of the office and they made their way back to the security station where they retrieved their belongings and climbed into the sedan for their trip back to the Navy Yard.

"What do you think, Abs?"

"Well, we already established that the chemical molecules of the explosive compound in the faulty grenade are different to what COL have listed in their operations manual."

"You think they pull out the manual and the legit materials whenever there's an inspection or investigation and use the cheaper more unstable materials whenever the coast is clear?"

"Maybe. That's why I collected samples from all of their machines, Gibbs. Both compounds contain common components but the unstable compound also has some very unique components that no amount of cleaning would completely eradicate from the machines."

"So when you run your analysis, if you find traces of the unique components, we can prove COL has breached its Navy contract and has been manufacturing poor quality explosives."

"Correct! But not only their Navy contract, if COL is using these particular chemicals, they are breaking some pretty heavy safety and licensing regs and can be shut down and prosecuted. There's also something hinky about the manufacturers mark on this grenade," she said fingering the empty casing Corbin had given her.

"Define hinky," Gibbs said, slapping her hand away from the radio dial.

"I'm not certain, but it just looks and feels a little different to the manufacturer's mark on the fragment of the grenade that killed the two Marines," Abby replied.

"Different as in not COL?"

"No, they're both definitely marked COL," she confirmed. "It could be because, like, one went kaflooey and one didn't but they feel different. I should be able to tell you once we get back."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"McGee, what've you got?" Gibbs asked striding purposefully to his desk and placing his weapon and ID in the desk draw.

"Still checking COL's financials for the last six months, Boss," the younger man answered. "Nothing unusual yet."

"Stay on it," he instructed walking to the fax machine. "Ziva?"

"As you requested, I am running background checks on the list of 140 employees of COL," she replied. "I have completed approximately 63 checks and have found no abnormalities except for the occasional traffic violation. I believe COL conduct their own thorough security and background checks during the pre-employment process."

Gibbs placed the fax on Ziva's desk.

"What is this?" she asked sceptically.

"Another list," Gibbs replied. "COL has another secured warehouse facility near Pax River. Check the financial records of these people, see if anyone's spending up big."

"There must be 50 names on this list!"

"65. Start with the foreman and leading hand and work your way down. Get McGee to help you when he's finished. I'll be with the director and I'll see what we can do about a TAD agent."

Ziva's jaw hung open as her mind tried desperately to comprehend what had just happened and she looked to McGee for support.

"I never thought that I would say this, McGee, and if you tell anyone I will remove your spleen with my bare hands," she said menacingly, "but I'm actually beginning to miss Tony."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs brought the director up to date with the status of the investigation. Vance was more than a little surprised when Gibbs requested a TAD agent for the duration of Tony's medical leave.

"Asking for help, Jethro?" Vance said. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"My team's been a man down for nearly two months, Leon, we're swimming in paperwork on this one and can use a pair of fresh eyes until DiNozzo's back, that's all."

Vance tapped a few keys on his keyboard and opened the personnel roster file.

"Morrison's available. He just transferred in from San Diego. He's due to start Monday but I'm sure he'll have no objection to starting early."

"Good man?" Gibbs asked.

"They're all good men, Gibbs," Vance replied. "He's young and keen and he'll benefit from the experience on the MCRT."

"I'm down a senior field agent Leon, we haven't got time to baby sit a probie!"

"He's all I've got available at the moment, move McGee to senior and give Morrison a chance. I can have him here in a few hours. In the meantime, SecNav has requested that you and I meet him at his Pentagon office. He's attending the funeral for Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells tomorrow and wants a progress report."

"Now? I'm in the middle of an investigation!" Gibbs protested.

"You're the lead agent. SecNav's got officials from the DoD and the White House demanding information on this case," Vance said. "He wants a comprehensive sitrep before he meets with them and the families of the dead marines. My car will be out front in an hour."

Gibbs nodded curtly, knowing the director's mind was made up. He exited the office then rode the elevator to the forensics laboratory.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Abby was hunched over a large magnifying glass, closely examining an object in her right hand when Gibbs walked silently into the lab and stood behind her. Looking over her shoulder he noticed the focus of her intent was the empty casing of the M67 grenade obtained from COL.

"Boom!" he said loudly, causing Abby to throw the grenade into the air in fright and clasp both hands to her chest. Gibbs casually plucked the grenade from the air.

"Gibbs!" she exclaimed, barely holding back a scream.

Lighting up the room with a rare smile, he handed the casing back to Abby.

"What have you got, Abs?" he asked.

"You mean apart from a near fatal heart attack?" she replied, punching the agent in the shoulder.

"Yep, apart from that."

"You're just in time, Gibbs, my babies just called," she said.

"And?"

"And the samples we took from COL do not match the explosive elements in the faulty grenade. I'm running more tests to determine where these elements originated but I'm pretty sure we'll find that it wasn't manufactured in the US. The explosive compound in the grenade that killed the two Marines was _not_ manufactured at COL."

"But the grenade casing has COL's manufacturer's marker on it," Gibbs said.

"Yes, it does. But as we saw today, to make the grenade casings, COL smelter their raw materials until they are molten liquid then they pour the liquid steel into moulds with the COL manufacturers mark on them," Abby said. "The faulty grenade had lots of tiny little hairline fractures surrounding the manufacturers mark – not enough to compromise the grenade casing but enough to know that the mark was caused by a pneumatic hammer or a pneumatic press_, after_ the grenade casing was cast and cooled."

"So someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like it was a COL product," Gibbs stated.

"Yep!" Abby said. "Why would someone do that, Gibbs?"

"That's what I'm gonna find out," Gibbs said leaning forward to place a kiss on Abby's cheek. "Good job, Abs."

Touching a hand to her cheek, the Goth forensic scientist smiled happily as she turned to face her much loved computers and forensic equipment.

"You hear that, babies? We've done it again! Good job!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A/N - Big thank you to Jim for his help with iron casting and manufacturing procedures and for not blinking an eye when I told him I was interested in making hand grenades! Thank you all for reading and for your kind reviews. L

Next chapter – Probie gets a probie - TAD Special Agent Aaron Morrison arrives to lend a hand and a big break in the case comes from an unexpected source.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

A/N – Although the investigation continues throughout the story, this is the last of the _really_ heavy investigative chapters. L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 8**

Ziva and McGee were glad for the interruption when Gibbs walked back into the bullpen and brought them up to date with Abby's findings. He advised them that the faulty M67 grenade had, in all probability, not been manufactured in the USA but had been made to look like it was a COL product.

"COL manufactures and distributes thousands of weapons a week," Ziva stated. "It is a miracle that there have not been more casualties."

"We need to know who and why before anyone else gets hurt," Gibbs said.

"Disgruntled competitor?" McGee ventured. "Trying to sabotage COL's reputation _and_ their Navy contract?"

"Perhaps an unhappy former employee?" Ziva added.

"It has to be someone big, someone with enough pull and money to get the imported, inferior ordnance through customs," McGee added.

"If someone has been replacing the COL shipments with sub-standard products, they would need somebody on the inside who could circumnavigate security and who knows the shipping manifests," Ziva said.

"Somebody who works at either or both of the COL warehouses," Gibbs said.

"Gibbs, did you not tell us that all of the security guards, the foreman and the leading hand, work rotating shifts between the two warehouse sites?" Ziva asked.

"Check em all out, I want backgrounds and financial situations," Gibbs instructed.

"I have already checked the backgrounds and financial records of the foreman and leading hand – there was nothing out of the ordinary – both men have been long term employees of COL," Ziva said. "There are thirty security guards on the COL payroll."

"McGee, I want a list of all ordnance manufacturers who tendered for the Navy contract at the same time as COL – the Fraud Division should have that list – and check the security tapes at both warehouses for anything that looks suspicious. I want them all by the time I get back."

"You're leaving, Boss?" McGee asked, looking at the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

"SecNav needs a sitrep on the investigation. I'll be a couple of hours."

"Um...Boss, before you go..." McGee cleared his throat and looked nervously to Ziva for support.

"We could use more help, Gibbs," Ziva stated . "There is a huge amount of paperwork for just McGee and me."

"Not you, Ziva. I need you to drive to COL and bring Jack Corbin in for further questioning."

"Boss? Just me to do all these background checks _and _the security tapes?" McGee asked anxiously.

"TAD agent named Morrison's on the way in," Gibbs explained. "When he gets here, bring him up to date and get him checking the backgrounds on the security guards. He's a probie, McGee, keep an eye on him. If there's any problems, handle them."

"Yes, Boss," McGee said disconsolately as Gibbs checked his watch and headed for the elevator to meet with the director.

Ziva reached for her side arm and ID, pleased to be getting out of the office after being deskbound for two days. She spared an empathetic smile for McGee.

"You know, Ziva, I think you were right. We could really use Tony right now."

"Do not worry, McGee, I will drive as fast as I can," Ziva said.

"I think that's a given," McGee muttered as she left the bullpen.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

McGee was flustered. Gibbs and Ziva had been gone for an hour and he had just received a message that the TAD agent, Morrison, had been unavoidably delayed. Abby was running a series of tests for Balboa's team who had caught a homicide case while covering for the MCRT.

He had spoken with the Fraud Division, who had provided the names of the four other companies who had unsuccessfully tendered for the Navy contract at the same time as COL. He had barely started the background checks when the email file containing the last three months security tapes from both COL warehouses had arrived. He checked his watch again, knowing that Gibbs would be back in two hours expecting answers. He sighed audibly and reluctantly lifted the handset to call the one person he could think of who would agree to help him. The call was answered on the second ring.

"Abby_, for the love of God,_ I told you already, I ate half a ham and salad sandwich three hours ago at lunch and washed my meds down with orange juice. I have an apple and some crackers beside me for an afternoon snack and a bottle of water and some Tylenol for my headache, which, _I gotta tell ya_, _Abs,_ goes up a notch every time the phone rings. I'm lying on the couch with Burt the farting Hippo and I _swear_ I'm resting."

"Hey, Tony, it's me," McGee replied. "Abby still fussing over you?"

"Abby Scuito – Caf-Pow in human form – does not fuss, she smothers," Tony complained.

"She's just worried about you, Tony."

"I know, man," Tony replied, allowing his voice to soften. "And I appreciate it but she calls to tell me I should be sleeping and then calls back fifteen minutes later to see if I'm asleep yet!"

"Oh, did I wake you?"

"Nah. Sleep is overrated," Tony answered with a yawn. "You're early McGoo, I thought it would take you at least until tomorrow before you realised how much you missed me."

"Actually, Tony, that's kind of why I'm calling." He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and cringed, knowing full well that the following admission was going to cost him dearly for many months to come. "I kind of need your help."

"Ree-eally," Tony said, elongating the word. "So after shunning my previous offer of help, the Padawan has seen the evils of the dark side and now seeks counsel with the Jedi Master."

"Let me guess, you've had yourself a little Star Wars marathon."

"I told you I was bored!" Tony replied.

"Tony, I'm really sorry about this, I know you're on medical leave and supposed to be resting…"

"What have you got for me Probie-wan?"

"You feel up to looking through some security tapes?" McGee asked his senior agent.

Receiving Tony's affirmation, McGee brought him up to date with the case details and forwarded the email file containing COL's security tapes, blueprints of the warehouse facility, the entry/exit logs and the manifests.

"I'm guessing Gibbs doesn't know you've called me?" Tony said.

"Er…no and I…er…would really appreciate it if you didn't tell him."

"No problem…but it'll cost you a dinner," Tony replied.

"Steak or seafood?"

"Anything but eggplant, McGoo," Tony replied before disconnecting the call.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs and Ziva returned within ten minutes of each other and Jack Corbin was shown to one of the conference rooms.

McGee gave Gibbs a list of the four other companies that had competed against COL for the Navy contract. As Gibbs headed for the conference room to speak with Corbin, a young man confidently entered the bullpen. Wearing an expensive designer suit, the good-looking man had sandy coloured hair, warm brown eyes and a quick, genuine smile. He cleared his throat, waiting for Ziva or McGee to acknowledge his presence.

"Can I help you?" McGee asked.

"Are you Special Agent Gibbs?" the man asked.

"Nope, just missed him," McGee said, cocking a thumb distractedly in the direction Gibbs had headed. "Silver hair, blue eyes, winning personality."

Ziva frowned at McGee's very Tony-like comment but remained silent.

"I'm Special Agent Aaron Morrison. I just transferred from San Diego and have a TAD assignment with the MCRT."

After the introductions and a brief update on the case, McGee seated Morrison at Tony's desk with a list of COL warehouse employees and security guards whose background and financials needed checking.

Four inches shorter than Tony's 6 foot 2 frame, Morrison adjusted the height of Tony's chair and opened the drawer in search of a pen. His mouth gaped slightly as he saw the Mighty Mouse stapler, the furry handcuffs, a slinky, a yoyo, a backscratcher, an American Pie coffee mug and the snow bunny issue of GSM magazine. He looked to McGee and Ziva with a silent query on his lips but his question went unanswered as they smiled benevolently and returned to their work. Morrison powered up the computer and his eyes widened as Tony's "Shoot bin Laden" game appeared as a screensaver. He shook his head slowly, wondering what he'd walked into and logged in to assist with the background checks.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Tony leaned forward, scrutinising the monitor and ignoring the protest of his various aches and pains. He rewound and paused the grainy black and white image while he checked the exit/entry logs of the COL's main facility. He checked the time stamp and licence plate of the COL delivery vehicle against the log records and watched, frame by frame as the security guard greeted the driver and opened the exit gate allowing the vehicle to leave.

According to the log, the van was headed to COL's secondary warehouse facility at Pax River with a manifest including M67's, C-4, and assault rifles. COL foreman, Jose (Joe) Castillo was recorded as the driver of the vehicle and Tony noted the departure time at 2100 hours. He switched to the corresponding security tape and watched the arrival of the delivery van at the Pax River complex. The security check was completed and the guards opened the gate to allow entry to the facility. What piqued Tony's curiosity was the fact that the 90-minute journey had taken almost three hours.

He checked the manifests to the delivery receipts and found that it corresponded exactly – nothing was missing but the abnormally long travel time was cause for concern. As there was no record of engine trouble, traffic congestion or anything that may have caused the delay, Tony checked the log and found that Castillo took another delivery two nights later. Again, the logs showed a three-hour trip from one COL facility to the other.

Tony's gut was churning as he found eighteen deliveries in the last ten weeks – all driven by Castillo, with all despatch and delivery receipts matching but, mysteriously, all taking three to four hours to complete. He reached for the phone and called McGee.

"Special Agent McGee's phone."

"Who's this?"

"This is Special Agent Morrison, can I help you, Sir?"

"Morrison? I don't know any Morrison, you new?" Tony asked.

"Just transferred in from San Diego, Sir, how can I help you?"

"You're the new probie," Tony stated.

"That's a _probational agent_, Sir," Morrison enunciated. "However, I'm sure I can assist you."

"You been sitting at my desk, Probie?" Tony asked without waiting for a response. "You should be aware that I know exactly where I left everything, including the clowny cakes and Snickers bars in my bottom drawer. If just one thing is missing or not in it's proper place, I will hunt you down, you got that, Morrison? Nice talking to you, put McGee on the phone."

"Er…Agent McGee has stepped away from his desk," Morrison said hesitantly.

"What about Ziva?"

"She's here, just a moment please." Morrison placed the call on hold with a shell-shocked look on his face.

"Um…Agent David…it's for you. It's…er…Special Agent DiNozzo," Morrison stuttered. "I need to step out for a moment. I…I won't be long."

Ziva sighed audibly as she lifted the handset and watched Morrison hurry from the bullpen.

"Congratulations, Tony, you have just terrified another probational agent."

"Just looking out for what's mine, Zee-vah," Tony replied. "Where's McGee?"

"McGee is with Gibbs in the conference room, I will tell him you called."

"What can you tell me about COL foreman, Jose Castillo?"

"Absolutely nothing," Ziva replied.

"Come on, Ziva, this is important!"

"I am sorry, Tony, but Gibbs left strict instructions that you were to rest and not get involved in this case. He will not be happy if he knew I was talking to you about it."

"He's Gibbs - he's never happy."

"That is beside the point, Tony, you should be resting and if…"

"Ziva, I think I've got something on Castillo, are you gonna help me or not?"

"I have already checked Castillo's background and his financial situation, Tony. I found nothing to suspect he is involved in anything illegal."

"Just tell me what you've got!" Tony said with increasing impatience and his headache throbbing painfully.

Ziva huffed in exasperation, brought Castillo's background check up on her computer and read aloud.

"Jose Castillo, aka Joe Castillo – aged 48. Born in El Salvador. His parents and siblings were killed in the civil war there and he fled to the US in 1984. He was granted refugee status, then eventually US citizenship. He is a trusted employee and foreman of COL where he has been employed for 25 years. Tony, I really don't think…."

"Go on, Ziva, this is important," Tony interrupted, trying to rub the ache from his temples.

"Castillo recently lost his wife to a rare blood disorder. He sold the family home and most of their possessions to pay her medical and hospital expenses. He has an outstanding loan of thirty-two thousand dollars that was used to pay for home care for his wife. His bank balance reflects his modest standard of living and the IRS report his tax records are up to date. He has few possessions and is renting a small one bedroom apartment in a less than salubrious area."

"Any family?"

"He has a daughter, Anna Castillo, who is doing an under grad course in political science at George Washington Univerity."

"She live on campus?"

"Yes."

"That's about thirty grand a year right there, do you know how they paid for her tuition?"

"Yes, Tony, this is not my first investigation," Ziva replied in exasperation. "Anna Castillo is an exceptionally bright girl. She was awarded a partial scholarship and her tuition for the next three years was paid from proceeds of her mother's life insurance policy."

"Anyone check that?"

"Yes, Tony, I checked with the scholarship board and GWU who confirmed that the tuition is fully paid to the end of 2012."

"But did anyone trace the source of the funds from the mother's life insurance policy?"

"No, we had no reason to suspect that..."

"Do it, Ziva," Tony interrupted. "Get McGee to run an origin trace on the funds or ring the insurance company and confirm the amount of the payment. Something's not right with this guy, trust me!"

She noted the edge to his voice with concern and sighed heavily.

"Gibbs will kill me for even talking to you about the case…but I will contact the insurance company myself," she said.

"Thanks, Ziva, there's a clowny cake in my bottom drawer with your name on it. Tell McGee I'm sending him an email about the security tapes – I found something else that he needs to follow up right away."

"I will tell him," she said, quietly. "You should rest, Tony, we can take it from here."

Snapping his cell closed, Tony sat heavily on the couch wincing as the movement nudged the intensity of his headache up a few notches. Again, he rubbed his temples to ease the tension and fleetingly wondered if he could phone in leads on all future cases from the comfort of his couch. The headache was matched by an overwhelming wave of fatigue, so he closed heavy eyelids and allowed sleep to claim him.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"No, I don't believe it!" Corbin said. "There has to have been some kind of mistake; I have known Joe Castillo for 25 years, he's an honest, hard working, family man, he wouldn't be involved in something like this!"

"Mr Corbin, Castillo's daughter, Anna, attends GWU and lives on campus," McGee stated. "Do you know how Castillo affords her tuition?"

"Yes, Anna has a partial scholarship and the proceeds of her mother's life insurance policy paid for the next three years."

"Four years as a live in student would cost close to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Anna's scholarship covered twenty thousand. Her mother's policy would need to be approximately one hundred thousand dollars."

"That's right," Corbin said. "Joe told me that he put the entire proceeds of Rosa's policy towards Anna's education."

"We checked with the insurance company, the life insurance policy was for ten thousand dollars," Gibbs said. "Where would Castillo get his hands on one hundred thousand dollars?"

"I…I don't know," Corbin responded. "He sold his house."

"He used the sale proceeds to cover his wife's medical and hospital bills," McGee said. "According to his banking records, by the time his wife died, Castillo had less than four hundred dollars in his account."

Corbin leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands as Gibbs turned to McGee.

"You tracing the source of the funds?"

"Yes, Boss, but it's gonna take a while."

"Take Ziva, go pick him up."

He watched the younger man leave the room and he rose to his feet and crossed the room to the coffee machine. He refilled his and Corbin's coffee mugs and placed the steaming hot brew in front of the other man. Corbin nodded his thanks and exhaled loudly.

"I didn't get to where I am today by being a fool, Agent Gibbs," he said. "I may not be college educated but I can read people and I know Joe Castillo couldn't be involved in something like this – there has to be a reasonable explanation."

"Why was Castillo making deliveries?" Gibbs asked. "I thought that the plant foreman would have more pressing business."

"Just after Rosa's death, one of our casual delivery drivers was killed in a hit and run accident. I told Joe to hire a new driver but he said he could use the extra money and offered to do the deliveries himself. I knew he was struggling financially – hell I offered him a loan myself but he was too proud to accept. He did most of the deliveries before or after hours, so it didn't interfere with his duties as foreman."

"Where was the guard? If he was delivering high-powered weapons and explosive ordnance, why was there no guard with him?" Gibbs asked.

"I can assure you, Agent Gibbs, security is something we take _very _seriously," Corbin said. "The deliveries by our casual drivers are generally packaging, spare parts and administrative supplies so a guard isn't necessary."

"I'm looking at the manifests, Corbin!" Gibbs said running out of patience. " M-67's, assault rifles, hand guns!"

"Okay, there have been the odd occasion when we've had a small emergency order or when there's been a mix-up with a requisition and we've used the smaller delivery trucks," Corbin admitted. "But only Joe takes those deliveries and it's only been three or four occasions that I'm aware of."

"According to COL records, those deliveries have been happening two or three times a week for the last four months!"

Corbin's mouth fell open. "I swear, Agent Gibbs, I didn't know anything about that."

Colour drained from his face as a thought occurred.

"The delivery driver that died," he said in a harsh whisper. "You don't think that Joe had anything to do with his death?"

"No, but I'm guessing he knows who did."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Forty-five minutes later, Gibbs stood watching through the one-way glass as Joe Castillo sat in the interrogation room, fidgetting anxiously. He was a leanly muscled man with the dark hair and eyes common in people of his ethnicity. Despite the fine sheen of perspiration visible on his brow and upper lip and the guilty look in his eyes, Gibbs knew instinctively that this man was as much a victim as Lance Corporal Oliver and Sergeant Major Wells. Nodding to the audio technician to begin recording, Gibbs left the room and entered the interrogation room seconds later.

Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds was all it took for Joe Castillo to hang his head shamefully and admit that he had aided the substitution of poor quality ordnance for COL's far superior products. Gibbs explained his Article 31 rights and Castillo declined his right to engage an attorney as he began to explain how he had become involved in the illegal and deadly operation.

_Just over three months ago, shortly after his wife Rosa's death, Castillo had gone to "Guadalajara's" Bar and Grill, a popular establishment for Salvadorans now living in Washington DC. He sought the familiarity and comfort of the Salvadoran music and cuisine. Although not usually a drinking man, the need to escape the debilitating grief by drowning his sorrows was overwhelming._

_His daughter, Anna, had worked exceptionally hard and been awarded a partial scolarship to GWU. It had been his and Rosa's dream that their daughter receive a college education but what he didn't know, was how on earth he was going to pay for the rest of her tuition._

_He was approached by a man known only to him as Carlos. The man appeared to know a lot about him, including his recent loss and the fact that he was foreman at COL. Carlos offered Castillo enough money to pay Anna's tuition for the next three years if he would help them appropriate weapons, ammunition and explosive ordnance from COL and substitute them with poor quality imported products. _

_Castillo had refused and started to rise to his feet when Carlos placed a series of photos on the table. His blood ran cold as he recognised his daughter, Anna, in the photographs – Anna at the mall with friends, at the gym, walking to and from her classes, going to the library. The words were unspoken but the message was loud and clear – help us or Anna gets hurt. He had no choice but to agree. _

_Castillo had been given a burn phone and told to keep it on him at all times and he had been shocked and appalled by the suspicious hit and run accident a week later, that took the life of one of COL's casual delivery drivers._

_As instructed, he approached Jack Corbin and asked to take over the delivery runs himself. Corbin had offered Castillo a loan for whatever amount he needed but Castillo insisted that he did not need charity and could handle his job as foreman and the casual delivery job as well. Corbin agreed._

_Castillo had arranged various delivery runs, contacting Carlos the evening before by email and attaching the manifest, which contained a list of the ordnance and weapon serial numbers and the approximate time he would leave COL to make the delivery. When Castillo had left the facility and __was in transit in the delivery truck, he would be contacted and given the address of a warehouse where the exchange would take place. So far, he had made eighteen deliveries to five different warehouses - the locations were rotated so as not to establish a pattern._

_Castillo would be met at the warehouses by Carlos and at least eight other men, two who appeared to be weapons specialists while the others were muscle who did the loading and unloading while keeping a sharp lookout. The weapons specialists would oversee the removal of genuine COL weapons from the crates as they were replaced by the substitutes. _

_When Castillo learned of the death of the two Marines, he contacted Carlos and told him he would not help him anymore. The next day, when he returned home, he found a framed photo of Anna and his wife Rosa on his bed – the glass had been shattered as a warning that Anna would be hurt or killed if Castillo refused to cooperate._

Castillo raised his head and looked at Gibbs with tear-filled eyes.

"I couldn't let them hurt her, Agent Gibbs," Castillo said. "I just lost my wife, I couldn't lose my little girl as well."

Gibbs nodded his head, understanding in a way only a father could.

"When is your next delivery?" Gibbs asked.

"Tomorrow."

"Call your daughter. Tell her an agent will arrive in 30 minutes to take her to a safe house," Gibbs said. "You'll make your delivery as instructed, don't do anything to arouse their suspicion. We'll wait for you to leave the warehouse and an agent will take you to your daughter."

"What are you going to do?"

"End this," Gibbs said striding from the room.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

A/N Thank you for reading. Don't forget to drop me a PM if I have confused you along the way – from a writing perspective, that's valuable for me to know. L

Next chapter - Action picks up next chapter when a stake out goes horribly wrong for the MCRT and a mistake by Probie Morrison puts McGee's life at risk.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 9**

The sound of the refrigerator door being opened and closed insinuated itself into Tony's mind and drew him from a restful slumber. He kept his eyes closed and cursed that, even without the aid of painkillers, he had fallen into a deep sleep and allowed someone into his apartment unchallenged. He listened intently but heard no further sounds until a gruff voice sounded in close proximity to where he lay on the couch.

"You gonna lie there pretending you're asleep or you gonna eat something?"

He cracked open one eye, surprised by the darkness now flooding his apartment and saw Gibbs standing over him with a plate in each hand.

"Boss?" he croaked.

"You expecting someone else?"

"Not sure," Tony mumbled propping himself up on his elbows and yawning widely. "Last time I woke up to someone in my kitchen it was Eggplant Boy."

Gibbs placed the plates on the coffee table and watched as Tony hauled his lanky frame into a seated position and rolled his shoulders and neck to work out some of the kinks.

"Ever think of using your bed, DiNozzo?" he asked.

"Not for sleeping, Boss," Tony quipped, flashing a quick grin before deeply inhaling the tantalising aroma of the egg white omelette with ham and tomato. "Smells good, I'm starvin'."

Gibbs cast a critical eye over his senior field agent noting his still pale complexion and the thin lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. He walked back into the kitchen and collected a coffee mug and a glass of orange juice and placed them on the table beside their meals.

"I'd kill for a coffee," Tony said reaching across the table for the steaming cup then giving a sharp yelp as Gibbs slapped his hand away.

"You get the juice," Gibbs said pointing at the large glass with his chin.

"Aw come on, Boss…" Tony whined.

"Ducky said healthy foods and no coffee...I can always heat up the eggplant."

"Juice is fine, Boss" Tony quickly took a large gulp and muttered petulantly, "I'm out of it for a while and everyone turns into Martha Stewart."

"You say something?" Gibbs asked.

"Um, I was just saying that…er…it was very nice of you to _do it_!"

As he was still convalescing, Gibbs let Tony's white lie slide but it didn't escape his scrutiny that Tony wasn't eating with his usual appetite.

"When do you see the doc?" he asked the younger man.

"Tomorrow at fourteen hundred," Tony replied around a forkful of food. "Should get the all clear for next week."

"You up to that?"

"Sure," Tony shrugged one shoulder casually.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

"Okay, I'm still a little sore but the nausea and dizziness are gone and I'm feeling better every day."

"And the headaches?"

Tony opened his mouth to deny it and then sighed resignedly, knowing his boss could read him like a book. "Come and go," he shrugged again.

Finishing his own meal and tired of watching Tony push his food around his plate, Gibbs took the remnants into the kitchen, put the scraps in the trash and the dishes into the sink. He walked into Tony's bedroom, returning with the three bottles of meds. He shook his head seeing that two of the bottles were still full.

"Pills won't work if ya don't take 'em," he growled.

"I've been taking the anti-inflammatory meds, Boss," Tony replied, "but the painkillers and muscle relaxants make me sleep all the time."

"Well, yeah," Gibbs replied in a tone that clearly said 'that's the idea, genius!'

"I really don't need help to sleep, Boss, that's all I've been doing! Besides, you know me and painkillers, they make me a little…."

"Demented?" Gibbs offered.

"That hurts, Boss," Tony replied in a wounded voice. "I was gonna say kooky."

Gibbs reflected for a moment and conceded that, even without the painkillers, Tony was dead to the world when he'd arrived first thing this morning with the groceries and was sleeping soundly again this evening. The younger man had an uncanny ability to sense someone's presence and it was damned unusual to get within ten feet of his sleeping form without him springing to his feet brandishing his Sig. It was obvious to Gibbs that the undercover assignment plus this recent injury had finally caught up with him.

"No coming back to work early this time," he said. "You have medical and vacation time owing – take it. You get the all clear from your doc tomorrow, call your buddy with the cabin and tell him you're coming up for the weekend. I don't want to see you until Tuesday,"

"Monday?" Tony argued.

"Wednesday!"

"Tuesday it is, I gotcha, Boss," Tony acquiesced before Gibbs made it Friday. "I gotta call by the office and give Ducky my medical certificate but I should be able to book a flight for tomorrow afternoon."

"Good enough," Gibbs said walking to the door where he turned to look back at his agent.

"Good job on the security tapes," he said, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch in a small grin when Tony's shocked expression confirmed his suspicion. "And DiNozzo…lose the whiskers."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

After checking on his ailing senior field agent, Gibbs returned to the Navy Yard to check in with his more able-bodied team members. Castillo's confession had provided them with several leads they hoped would direct them to whoever was behind the weapons substitution operation.

Ziva and TAD probie Morrison had arranged protective custody of Anna Castillo, who was currently being guarded by two agents at an NCIS safe house. They then headed to Guadalajara's Bar and Grill to retrieve the security tapes. Utilising the time and date provided by Joe Castillo, they quickly located the man in question and Abby had used a facial recognition program to identify Carlos Torres.

Torres was a Salvadoran who migrated to the USA fifteen years ago. He was forty-three years old, with thick black hair, dark eyes and an athletic build. He had been arrested three times for malicious assault and once for attempted extortion – simply put, Torres was a thug. He had served eight years in prison before being released on parole.

Based on his past convictions and Castillo's account of their meetings, it was more than likely that Torres was only the muscle - somebody else was calling the shots and _that_ somebody had the brains, the know-how and the money to plan this entire operation and import the cheap ordnance into the country without raising suspicion.

McGee traced the source of the funds used to pay Anna Castillo's tuition to a shelf company that had been established only seven months ago. He then checked the addresses of the five warehouses to which Castillo had made deliveries and determined they had all been leased by the same shelf company for a 12-month period with rent paid by cash in advance. According to the US Security and Exchange Commission, the CEO of the shelf company was listed as Stanley Burton.

Ziva's background check on Burton revealed that he had been declared a missing person almost twenty years ago. Police had investigated and eventually declared it a cold case. Burton's family - clinging desperately to faint hope - had never had him declared legally dead. Although the team would check all possibilities, they knew that this was more than likely a case of identity theft.

Agent Morrison had attempted to back trace the email address Torres had given Castillo to forward the manifests and serial numbers. It was a free email account, also in the name of Stanley Burton. Previous emails sent to this account had been accessed at various internet cafes throughout the DC area. The keyboards, used so often by so many, were unlikely to provide usable fingerprints.

Desperate to avoid any further casualties, Jack Corbin had provided Gibbs with a list of all Naval and Marine bases affected by the weapons substitution - with priority given to those in Afghanistan. Utilising the manifests and listed serial numbers, they commenced an immediate urgent re-call of all weapons and ordnance involved.

Frustration intensified their weariness as the investigations left them with more questions than answers. At 2200, Gibbs sent them home with orders to be back for a 0600 briefing the next morning.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The briefing had been both thorough and concise, reviewing the case information gathered so far and discussing the plans and objectives of this morning's operation.

Joe Castillo, anxious for this nightmare to be over, had consented to assist the agents with their plan and had agreed to place a listening device in the cabin of the delivery truck. His request to wear a wire had been vetoed by Gibbs – the man was a civilian and he would undoubtedly be killed if the listening device were to be discovered.

According to Castillo, the warehouses were used only for transactional and delivery purposes, leading Gibbs to believe that they must be stockpiling their weapons at a primary base elsewhere. They needed to find the location of this base, only then could they successfully shut down the operation and find out who was behind it.

Torres and his men would, on occasion, also use the warehouses as a meeting place to sell weapons and/or explosives to mercenary groups or various gangs located on the east coast.

Castillo returned to COL to load the truck and await contact from Torres with the delivery address. Once received, the team would drive to the destination and take up their positions around the warehouse – close enough to provide covering support and to photograph those involved for evidence and identification purposes - but far enough away not to be spotted.

Once the delivery had been made, Castillo would join his daughter in the safe house and the team would follow Torres and his men to their base location. Gibbs would then call for support to raid the premises, make the necessary arrests and confiscate the weapons.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs, McGee, Ziva and Morrison were in the agency vehicle - captive audience to the listening device placed in Castillo's delivery van. McGee hated the oppressive silence and realised that, although Tony's ramblings drove him to distraction, in a tense situation such as this, it gave him a sense of normality and kept him calm.

Surreptitiously, he looked at the other members of the team; the lead agent was as taciturn and expressionless as ever although, McGee knew, he was carefully and thoroughly planning every move.

Ziva sat in the back seat cleaning and re-cleaning her Sig. While McGee was fighting feelings of apprehension, he knew Ziva was suppressing feelings of anticipation.

He had to turn his head slightly to see Morrison, who was jigging a leg and wiping the palms of his hands on his pants in nervous agitation.

The shrill of cell through his com-link drew him back from his observations and he held his breath as he waited for Castillo to answer. After a brief hesitation, Castillo repeated the Ravensworth address as Gibbs fired up the engine of the vehicle and pulled into the traffic.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A short time later, Gibbs parked the vehicle in the loading zone of a neighbouring warehouse a hundred yards away and out of direct sight from where Castillo was to make the drop. Exiting the vehicle, he flashed his badge and waved away the ruddy-faced storeman who had approached to tell them to move on.

Rounding the vehicle, they popped the trunk and each donned an NCIS Kevlar vest. It was not their intention to engage the occupants of the warehouse but Gibbs was already down a man and wouldn't risk another team member unnecessarily.

Glancing at Morrison, Gibbs noticed that his nervous tension was now tightly reined in. They checked their weapons and ammo before each selecting a high-powered camera from the trunk.

"Keep your heads down and stay out of sight," Gibbs reminded them. "We don't want to spook these guys before they go back to their base."

Castillo's voice crackled through their com-links, telling them he was only minutes away. Gibbs ordered them into position – McGee and Morrison to take cover behind a shipping container on the eastern side of the warehouse while Ziva and he would cover the west. They would hold their positions, photograph as many people as possible and wait until Torres' people moved out.

Acting like a well-drilled outfit, four of Torres' men had the COL truck unloaded fifteen minutes after Castillo reversed it into the loading bay, while another two heavily armed men patrolled the exterior of the warehouse.

Torres and two men, presumably weapons specialists, examined the COL stock before the truck was reloaded with the substitute ordnance.

"Boss, I count eight men and Torres," McGee said softly into the com-link.

"Roger that," came the reply. "Stand by."

Within forty minutes the delivery was completed, the truck reloaded with the substitute weapons and Castillo was on his way. When the COL truck was well clear of the warehouse, Castillo's voice sounded through their com-links again. He had overheard Torres speaking with one of his weapons specialists about a buy with a Washington based street-gang that was scheduled to take place within the hour. Gibbs advised his team to continue to hold their positions.

Thirty minutes later, a dark sedan drove slowly around the rear of the building, the occupants clearly searching for any sign of trouble or double-cross. The vehicle stopped and two men exited, one wearing 18th street colours while the other wore jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Two men remained in the car with the engine running.

McGee and Morrison fingered the shutter release buttons on their cameras, taking multiple shots of the men as they walked toward the rear entrance of the warehouse and were met by Torres and his two weapons specialists. Looking through the viewfinder, McGee zoomed in for a closer look at the new arrivals.

"Tony's gonna love this," he muttered.

"Got something, McGee?"

"Got an ID on the man with the gang-bangers, Boss," he replied. "It's Petty Officer Jay Forello, the guy Tony was chasing when he got wiped out by the car."

"Hold your positions," Gibbs repeated. "We go in now and we may never find out who's running this operation."

"Got it, Boss," McGee replied.

A delivery van from the neighbouring warehouse rounded the corner and pulled slowly to a stop in the loading bay, unknowingly blocking McGee and Morrison's view.

"Ahhh, Boss, we have just lost our visual," McGee reported quietly into the com-link.

"Hold your positions," Gibbs warned again.

"Copy that," McGee replied still looking straight ahead. "Looks like we wait, Morrison."

Disturbed by Morrison's lack of response, McGee turned to see that the probational agent – in an effort to improve his line of sight - had moved from his position and was advancing on the delivery van.

'_This is so not good_,' McGee thought.

His stomach muscles clenched tightly as he saw the driver return to the van, climb aboard and start the engine. Startled, Morrison spun around and tried to make a dash for the nearest cover but not before the van moved away, exposing his position.

A warning shout sounded and shots were fired in Morrison's direction. Torres' men and the gang-bangers took cover behind the large crates stacked in the loading bay. Morrison - amid a hail of bullets - dived headlong behind a forklift as McGee did his best to lay down covering fire.

From his position at the far side of the warehouse, Gibbs cursed loudly as he saw the probational agent scrambling to safety.

"Ziva!" he shouted, as he and the Israeli commenced firing, attempting to draw attention from Morrison.

"You idiot!" Torres screamed at Forello. "They're feds, you've been followed!"

"They're Navy cops," the gang-banger shouted at Forello. "You said you'd taken care of them!"

Forello's hands were raised in silent supplication as his eyes flicked nervously back and forth between Torres and his gun hand.

"I…I _did_ take care of them," Forello stuttered, licking his lips nervously. "We _weren't_ followed. I don't know how they found me. _Please, _I can fix this!"

"So can I," Torres replied, his face twisted with fury as he fired repeatedly into the chests of both men and watched them fall lifelessly to the ground.

The car engine roared and smoking tyres screeched as the remaining gang-bangers fled the scene. They fired a last, defiant burst of shots from the windows as they roared out of the dock.

Torres' voice was cold as he slowly turned and looked around at his men. "You men, finish loading the truck. The rest of you, find those feds… I want them _dead_!"

With a shared look and a nod, Nunez and Estefan rose immediately and circled to the right. Guns drawn and ready, they started their advance on McGee and Morrison's positions. Behind them, two more men broke cover and circled to the left.

Risking a quick look, McGee poked his head from around the back of the shipping container. He saw the young Probie dragging himself into a crouched position behind a fork lift. He appeared to be unharmed. Suddenly, a well-aimed shot slammed into the wall of the container, just inches from McGee's face. He recoiled, the sound of lead impacting steel ringing in his ears. Lowering his stance, he gripped his weapon with both hands and returned fire.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he stiffened involuntarily at a slight creaking noise from behind. Firming his grip on his firearm, he took a deep breath and swung around, his weapon rising toward the approaching man. Before he could complete the action, a fist smashed into his jaw, snapping his head back as pain exploded in his head and shafts of light danced before his eyes. He felt his knees buckle as he started to sink into a dark abyss, his last thoughts turned to Morrison, as his crumpled body hit the dirt.

From his position on the other side of the loading dock, Gibbs squeezed off another round. He watched as his bullet found its mark and thudded into the chest of the advancing gunman. He glanced quickly across and saw the young probie pinned down behind the forklift.

"McGee, sit rep!" he barked into the com-link. The answering silence causing his gut to tighten.

"Ziva! Cover me!"

Ziva adjusted her stance. "Go!" she replied and let loose with a rapid burst of fire toward the remaining gunman.

Gibbs waited a heartbeat before launching himself into a dead run, firing off a few salvos as he raced across the open ground. Silently cursing the searing pain in his bad knee, Gibbs refused to check his speed. He closed on Morrison's position in time to see Estefan, his weapon drawn, approaching Morrison from behind. The gunman stopped and slowly raised his arm to take aim at Morrison's unsuspecting back. Gibbs dropped to one knee and fired two shots in rapid succession and Estefan, his body jerking wildly in a strange dance parody, dropped to the ground.

The young Probie swung around, his horror at what had nearly transpired was clearly written on his face as he stared at Estefan's lifeless form.

The sound of a diesel engine roaring into life drew their attention. They looked up to see the last of the gunmen clamber inside as the fully loaded truck sped recklessly away. As it rounded the far corner of the warehouse, a man broke cover and ran full tilt at the truck. The driver didn't slow as Nunez dived and dragged himself up and over the rear tailgate.

Gibbs turned to quickly assess Morrison as he shakily climbed to his feet.

"You hurt?" he snapped.

Unable to find his voice, Morrison shook his head and leaned unsteadily against the forklift.

"Gibbs!" Ziva shouted from nearby. "McGee, is down!"

With one last look at the departing truck, Gibbs joined her at McGee's side and, with desperate fingers, searched his throat for a pulse while Ziva quickly checked for other signs of injury.

"He has not been wounded," she said in a relieved tone.

As McGee began to show signs of returning consciousness they noticed the purple bruise already blossoming on his jaw and cheekbone.

"Stay with him," Gibbs said.

"Of course," Ziva replied, noting the fury in the lead agent's eyes as he turned and stalked to where Morrison stood waiting resignedly.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Ah, Jethro!" Ducky greeted as the glass doors slid open to allow Gibbs entry into the autopsy rooms. "If you continue to bring our guests in by the half dozen, young Mr Palmer and I will be forced to hang our No Vacancy shingle! I do hope you aren't here to collect my reports!"

Gibbs nodded succinctly. "Right now, I'll take anything you got."

"I've not much to tell you that you don't already know. We had already established the identity of the slippery Petty Officer Forello and Mr Palmer took the fingerprints of our other five guests to Abby for confirmation of their ID," the ME advised.

"It will most likely take us well into the night to complete our reports."

"You get a chance to check McGee?"

"Timothy will be fine, Jethro, although you really ought to teach that young man to keep his guard up," Ducky said adopting a pugilistic pose with his hands held in a protective manner. "I remember when I was a bantamweight at Eton - Donald "Mad Dog" Mallard, they called me. I was quite an exponent of the sweet science in my day. In fact, I remember one time…."

"Ducky? McGee?" Gibbs prompted his garrulous friend.

"Oh, a story for another time, perhaps," Ducky chuckled. "Timothy has some bruising to his jaw and a loose upper bicuspid but no fractures and no concussion. Last time I saw him, he was assisting Abigail to confirm the identities of our guests here, well-armed with an icepack and a bottle of Tylenol."

"Thanks, Duck," Gibbs said walking toward the door.

"Jethro," Ducky called, "Far be it from me to listen to any form of scuttlebutt or idle gossip…"

"But?"

"Well…it appears that young Morrison's absence has started all kinds of speculation."

"He screwed up, Ducky!" Gibbs replied gruffly. "He had his orders and he ignored them."

"Oh dear!" Ducky said with a slow shake of his head. "Did he give any explanation for his actions?"

Gibbs looked away, unable to meet Ducky's eyes.

"Did you even ask him, Jethro, or was he cast into purgatory without the right of reply?"

"He didn't screw up a lunch order, Duck! He made a stupid mistake that cost us the operation and almost got himself and McGee killed!"

"Oh, I'm not condoning his actions," the ME said quietly. "However, isn't that why they are referred to as _probationary_ agents? I seem to recall that even our Anthony made his share of impetuous errors when he first joined us from Baltimore. You never gave up on him…you looked beneath the surface and saw what no one else saw - and he rewarded your faith by becoming a very fine agent. Give this young man a chance, Jethro, you may be surprised."

Gibbs gave a non-committal shrug. "Speaking of DiNozzo, he been in yet, Duck?"

"Not yet. If I remember correctly, his appointment with his doctor was at fourteen hundred, so I don't expect to see him before fifteen thirty hours."

"Any medical reason, that he couldn't catch a plane to Connecticut this afternoon?" Gibbs asked.

"He did suffer quite a nasty concussion, Jethro, but if his doctor clears him, I'm sure he'll be fine for a short flight," Ducky said. "A long weekend and fresh mountain air might be just the thing to put the twinkle back in our Anthony's eyes!"

"What I figured, thanks Duck," Gibbs said and headed towards the forensic lab.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"Oh, poor Timmy! It looks so painful," Abby said hovering over the bruised agent. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Abs, I'm fine," McGee insisted, adjusting the position of the icepack on his jaw. "It looks much worse than it feels."

"It does look quite…spectacular, McGee," Ziva said. "And yet…it adds something…it gives you a certain…rugged masculinity, yes?"

"Really? Rugged huh?" McGee asked, contemplating the description as he sat up straight and squared his shoulders. "Rugged's good...I can do rugged."

Ziva gently prodding his bruised cheek with her fingers, causing McGee to flinch away from her touch.

"Ow! That hurt!" he yelped, frowning deeply and hoping that the squeaky, prepubescent voice hadn't tarnished his new 'ruggedly masculine' mantle.

"Hey, where's Morrison?" Abby asked.

"We have not seen him since we returned from the warehouse. Perhaps Gibbs has sent him to Coventry," Ziva quipped.

"It's possible," McGee said with a nod. "If looks could kill, Morrison would be coughing dust. Even Tony doesn't get those kind of looks from the Boss...well, not often anyway."

"Oh, come on you guys, Gibbs isn't that bad," Abby exclaimed.

"That's easy for you to say, Abs, you're his favourite," McGee stated as Ziva nodded in agreement.

"You're just not looking hard enough," Abby replied. "Under that gruff, no-nonsense exterior is..."

"A gruff no-nonsense interior!" Gibbs growled, his sudden appearance and body language left no doubt that the lead agent was in no mood for small talk. "Tell me you have something!"

"Gibbs! We were just wondering what happened to Morrison…"

"What have you got for me, Abs?" he asked ignoring the question.

"O-kay, I ran the fingerprints of the body's from the warehouse, through AFIS and I've confirmed the identity of three of our six DB's. The first, of course, was the slippery, fleet of foot PO Forello while the second was Tomas Estefan," Abby replied.

"Boss, Estefan is, or rather, _was_ a known felon, involved in gun-running and weapons smuggling. The FBI, ATF, CIA and Interpol have wanted him for several years," McGee said. "There were several false reports that he had been shot and killed but this is the first time he actually stayed dead."

"What about the gang-banger?" he asked.

"Abby got a hit on his prints," Ziva said. "Richard, "Dicky" Johnson was leader of the 18th Street gang. He had criminal convictions ranging from armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon and was suspected of at least four gang-style murders – these were never proven. I have contacted Metro PD Gang Division and informed them of the possibility of retribution by other members of the gang."

"Not likely," Gibbs said. "Forello was the contact point between Torres and Johnson, with him dead and Torres rotating his meeting points, there's little chance of them catching up with him."

"I ran the bullets Ducky removed from Johnson and Forello's bodies," Abby said. "They were 9mm and fired from a MK23. As you know, the MK23's are widely used in the US military…particularly Navy Seals, so that doesn't help us at all 'cause Torres has got access to, like, hundreds of weapons like this. There were no discernable fingerprints on the bullets and the weapon was a clean-skin."

"What about the photos?" Gibbs asked, turning to McGee who, with a few quick keystrokes projected an enlarged photo on the plasma.

"We used the facial recognition program on the photos of the four men who escaped with Torres, nothing yet, Boss," McGee replied. "Joe Castillo told us that Estefan was working with Torres as one of two weapons specialists. Therefore, we assume that the man on the left is the other weapons specialist."

"I have been running a facial recognition program on him but there's been no hits so far," Abby added.

"He is also the man who was able to flank McGee and take him out with one punch," Ziva added as McGee winced at the memory.

"Thanks for the reminder, Ziva," McGee muttered. "I did have my hands full looking out for Morrison and it was a _very good_ punch!"

"Of course, McGee, I am not implying that you did anything wrong. I am merely asking the question…"

"Why isn't McGee dead?" Gibbs finished.

"Exactly! If I was in that situation, I would have shot McGee in the back of the head without hesitation," Ziva stated, a little too emphatically for McGee's liking. "This man had ample opportunity but he did not complete the job. Why?"

"Cold feet?" Abby suggested.

"I don't buy it. Has to be something else," Gibbs replied. "Stay on it, Abs, I want to know who that man is and I want to know who the hell he's working for."

"I can help you with that," a familiar voice stated, causing all heads to turn in his direction.

FBI Senior Agent, Tobias Fornell, leaned coolly against the wall at the back of the lab, a bemused grin on his face.

"You know this guy, Tobias?" Gibbs asked.

Fornell answered with a casual shrug. "His name is Ray Sanchez."

"You know who he works for?"

"Yep," Fornell replied casually. "Sanchez works for me."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A/N – You know I can't write a story without Fornell making an appearance!

Next chapter:- Gibbs and Fornell lock horns over jurisdiction! Will Tony's plans to get away to the mountain cabin be thwarted yet again? Gibbs is forced to make a decision regarding his senior field agent, that he may live to regret.

Thanks for reading and for your kind reviews, I hope you enjoyed that. L


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

I hope you enjoy this chapter, L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 10**

Director Vance leaned back in his chair in exasperation as he continued to listen to Gibbs and Fornell argue over jurisdiction and protocol matters. The argument was going nowhere and Vance's eyes flicked to the large print on his wall of Mohammad Ali and Sonny Liston, then back to the battle raging four feet in front of his desk. The two senior agents argued their cases, standing toe to toe and speaking over the top of each other - vaguely reminiscent of two old mountain goats, vying for position at the top of the mountain, locking horns, butting heads and neither willing to give an inch.

As much as he was secretly enjoying the verbal pugilism and enormously intrigued by the possible outcomes, Vance used his voice as a crowbar to pry the arguing agents apart.

"Okay, that's enough!" he asserted, mildly surprised when both men stopped their verbal jousting and turned their attention to him. "Agent Fornell, I am waiting for a return phone call from Director Timmins. As you two seem to be unable to resolve this matter, perhaps he and I can do so civilly and without this deteriorating into an inter-agency pissing contest."

Vance chose to ignore the simultaneous scoffs of scepticism and mirrored eye-rolls from the senior agents.

"A far as the FBI is concerned, there is nothing to be resolved," Fornell replied, glowering at Gibbs. "We have been working on this case for six weeks, we have a man deep undercover and your people came within a hair's breadth today of blowing his cover and getting him killed."

"Your man obviously knew weapons were being stolen from a ammunitions plant contracting to the US Navy," Vance stated. "I assume he relayed that information to you?"

"He did," Fornell answered.

"Protocol dictates that NCIS should have been informed immediately," Vance continued. "Why weren't we informed?"

"With all due respect, Director," Fornell replied. "That's a question for Director Timmins, not me."

"Come on Tobias, that's a cop out and you know it," Gibbs said. "Good Marines died because the FBI decided to keep vital information to themselves."

"After this morning's little escapade, tell me why the FBI would be keen to work with NCIS?" Fornell snapped. "That little operation of yours left six dead and the rest got away _with_ the weapons and left you empty handed. Just what kind of side-show are _you _running, Gibbs?"

"He's not running this _side-show_, _I_ am," Vance replied curtly.

"Excuse me, Director, no offence intended," Fornell stated.

"None taken," Vance lied and Gibbs' lips twitched as he watched the director suppress his ire.

"FBI has known about COL for, what, six weeks?" Gibbs asked.

Fornell set his jaw, aware of where the question was leading. "More or less," he replied. "Too long to allow you to ride in and take over, Gibbs."

"My team's been on this case for a week – we've already caught up. You guys at the Bureau have got nothing, Tobias, it's time to piss or get off the pot," Gibbs said meeting the steely look of his long time counterpart with an unshakable look of his own.

"Like I told you, Gibbs, we've got a man deep undercover and hundreds of hours invested in this! What have you got?"

"We've got three dead Marines!" Gibbs hissed.

"You'd have had three dead Marines and a dead agent if my man hadn't risked his life _and_ his cover to save McGee's ass!" Fornell snarled.

"Tell me who's behind this operation, Tobias, and we'll back off right now!" Gibbs declared. "You don't know, do you?"

Fornell's face reddened with an equal mix of fury and frustration but before he could respond the shrill tone of the intercom sounded and Vance silenced each man with a glare before removing the handset and answering curtly.

"Give me a minute and put him through," he said into the receiver before cupping a hand over the mouthpiece and looking up at Gibbs and Fornell. "Director Timmins is returning my call. Step out for a moment…and try not to kill each other."

Gibbs and Fornell exchanged a glower as they stepped into the outer office, neither entirely comfortable that the agency heads would resolve the matter of jurisdiction without their further involvement.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The elevator doors opened, depositing Tony into the bullpen. He walked toward his desk, his stride a little shorter than usual as still healing muscles and flesh protested his pace.

"Hey, Probie, you miss me?" he said, his jaw dropping as McGee's bruised face looked up from his computer. "Wowsers! What the hell happened to your face?"

"What this?" McGee asked with a nonchalant shrug. "I was attacked by a suspect in the line of duty…nothing to worry about."

"Ow…you keeping ice on that?" Tony asked with the benefit of bitter experience.

"Yes, Tony, I'm keeping ice on it," McGee said irritably. "What's the big deal anyway? I am a federal agent, this is not the first time I've been punched in the jaw by a suspect."

Tony raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe it is… but I still don't think it's a big deal," McGee insisted.

"Did you get him?" Tony asked.

"Who?"

"The suspect."

"Oh, um, not exactly."

"Too bad," Tony consoled. "But how many times have I told you not to lead with your chin?"

"About the same number of times I've told you to look both ways before you cross the street," McGee fired back.

"Touche, McGee," Ziva said as she returned to her desk and smiled in Tony's direction. "It is good to see you, Tony."

"Zee-vah, you're just in time," Tony told her. "Probie's just about to tell me what happened to the suspect who pummelled his face."

"Is that so?" Ziva asked in surprise. "Then perhaps you should ask me - after all, McGee was unconscious at the time."

"Unconscious? How many times did he get hit?"

"Just once," Ziva replied enjoying provoking the reaction of both men.

"Do I _really_ have to keep repeating myself?" McGee huffed in frustration. "It was a _very good_ punch!"

"And you are a lover and not a fighter, McGee, yes?" Ziva suggested.

Tony snorted. "It's like I always tell you Grasshopper, the pen may be mightier than the sword, but a well-aimed typewriter can do some serious damage."

"Okay, I admit, it's a little embarrassing," McGee conceded. "Almost as embarrassing as becoming a hood ornament on a Gremlin, right Tony?"

Tony's smile faded quickly. "Does your face hurt, Probie, 'cause it's killing me," he sniped.

McGee gave a wan smile.

"So, where's the Boss?" Tony asked looking around the operations room and moving the conversation as far away from the Gremlin as possible.

"Gibbs is in the director's office having a shouting match with Fornell," Ziva replied.

"In other words, situation normal," Tony said. "What have we done to tick off the boys from the Hoover Building this time?"

"It appears the FBI also have an interest in the weapons stolen from COL," Ziva explained. "In fact it was one of their agents, working undercover, who punched McGee in the face."

"Did you _have_ to tell him that?" McGee groaned as he recognised the gleam in Tony's eyes and mentally prepared himself for unmerciful teasing.

"Ree-eally?" Tony chuckled gleefully. "Sorry, Probie, I really don't mean to laugh…but I just have to. So, the men in black put your lights out, McFeatherweight? Come on, McGoo, where was your agency pride and all that extra hand to hand training you've been doing?"

"I'm going to say this one more time, so _read my lips_," McGee said articulating each word. "I was watching Morrison's back. He had broken cover and was pinned down by gunfire. The FBI agent came up on me _from behind_ while I was covering Morrison – _I took one for the team!"_

Tony looked at Ziva. "Clobbered from behind by the FBI - ouch," he said. "Sounds like McGoo could use some super ninja spatial awareness training."

"I am afraid so," Ziva replied with a small shake of her head as McGee rolled his eyes.

Noticing his empty desk, Tony asked. "Where _is_ the Probie's, probie?"

"I have just located him," Ziva answered. "It appears Gibbs wishes to teach him a lesson and has had him exiled to Records."

"He better not have taken anything from my desk McGee, I plan to do a full inventory when I get back on Tuesday and if anything is missing I'll hold you personally responsible."

"Me, why me?" McGee protested.

"Because as acting senior field agent, you are responsible for all equipment losses," Tony told him.

"Fine," McGee said. "You show me where a Mighty Mouse stapler, a clowny cake and a slinky are listed on the equipment requisition form and I'll take full responsibility."

The heavy footfalls of platform boots, pounded across the floor before Tony could reel off a reply.

"Tony! I missed you!" Abby squealed, throwing herself into his arms for an embrace that almost knocked him off his feet. She squeezed her friend tightly, causing him to flinch sharply and she stepped back quickly to assess him.

"Tony, I'm sorry," she said. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine," he lied. "Still a little sore, that's all. You know, Abs, with a body check like that, you have a big future in the National Hockey League."

Abby smiled brightly and placed a kiss on Tony's cheek. "Gibbs said you're going to Connecticut, after all. How are you feeling? Are you still having headaches? Did you get clearance from your doctor?"

"I am cleared and ready for take off," Tony smiled. "My flight to Connecticut is in 2 hours. I'm just here to hand in my medical certificate. Anyone know whether Ducky and Captain Eggplant are free?" he asked.

"I just came from Autopsy a few moments ago," Ziva replied. "Ducky and Palmer had finished their reports and were about to have a tea break."

"Perfect," Tony said setting off for the elevator. "I can be in and out and on my way to the airport in 10 minutes. See you guys later."

Abby, Ziva and McGee watched as Tony walked toward the elevators before exchanging a bemused look.

"He must have hit his head harder than we thought," McGee said. "Nobody who calls in on Ducky during afternoon tea, escapes in less than 30 minutes."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Although she had not overheard the details of the conversation that had taken place inside the director's office, his personal assistant heard the muffled sound of raised voices and knew both agents well enough not to make eye-contact or small talk. As she attended to her work the atmosphere in her usually warm but professional reception area became decidedly frigid.

Both agents ignored the plush leather visitor's chairs, presumably too worked up to sit and the PA held her breath when, simultaneously, both men started to pace. At every turn they impaled each other with a withering look, neither giving an inch. Her eyes widened when their agitated pacing led them to the centre of the room, face to face and toe to toe and she moved her hand to hover over the security switch on her console – just in case.

She watched in surprise as the tension appeared to disburse and their body language relaxed somewhat.

"Emily enjoy her birthday?" Gibbs asked, his gruffness softened by his affection for Fornell's young daughter.

"Yep," Fornell replied. "She loved the locket you sent – hasn't taken it off. She'll send you a card but asked me to thank you next time I saw you."

Gibbs nodded in reply. "Eleven?"

"Twelve. She'll be thirteen next year!" he groaned. "Then there'll be dating and teenage boys with rampant hormones - God help me!"

"Boys won't be a problem."

"How do you figure that?" Fornell asked.

"Her father's an FBI agent with a gun," Gibbs replied. "That fails, you have the best male repellent available."

"I do? What is it?"

"Dianne," Gibbs answered

Both men smiled at the expense of their mutual ex-wife.

The buzz of the PA's intercom sounded and both men turned their attention to her as she listened silently to the instruction and replaced the handset.

"You can go back in," she directed.

She watched with disbelief as the relaxed faces before her morphed back into the implacable, flinty expressions worn previously and the casual, easy posture they had both adopted became rigid and unyielding as the two agents walked back into the director's office.

Vance didn't immediately acknowledge their return, leaving both men suppressing their irritation. When, finally, he raised his head and looked at them, the expression he wore matched theirs.

"Agent Fornell, do you believe your agent's cover is still intact, despite this morning's… misunderstanding?" Vance asked.

"Yes, sir," Fornell replied. "I spoke with my agent just before I arrived here. Torres believes that NCIS were following the petty officer – Forello – and had no prior knowledge of the weapons deal that was about to occur."

"So Torres doesn't suspect that Castillo led our people to the warehouse. That's a lucky break," Vance said.

"Not for Forello," Gibbs stated.

"Director Timmins and I agree that, as the FBI have already invested so much time on this case and already have a man working inside the operation, they should continue their investigation," Vance advised.

The corner of Fornell's mouth lifted into a small, satisfied grin while Gibbs' eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to voice his objection.

"However," Vance continued. "We also agree that the FBI breached inter-agency protocol by not informing NCIS of the involvement of a Navy contractor when they first became aware of it three months ago."

Fornell raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Director Timmins agreed with that?"

"I'm paraphrasing but that's the gist," Vance replied picking up the telephone receiver and holding out to Fornell. "You have a problem with that, call him."

"No, no problem," Fornell said.

"We've lost three marines and there's a lot of interest in this case from the Pentagon and Capitol Hill. Effective immediately, this is to be a joint operation." Vance quickly raised a hand to silence the protests forming on the lips of the senior agents.

"Fornell, my people have made more progress in a week than yours have in over a month," he said, "and Gibbs, the FBI already have a man established on the inside of this operation. We may be able to use that to our advantage – get our own man inside."

"Could work," Gibbs said.

"Torres has lost one of his weapons specialists, he may need another," Fornell speculated.

"Is your agent in a position to recommend a replacement to Torres?" Vance asked.

"I would think so, he's in pretty tight," Fornell replied.

"Think he can set this up without raising suspicion?" Gibbs asked.

"Ray Sanchez is one of the best undercover operatives I've ever worked with," Fornell defended. "If he can't get your man in, no-one can."

"Needs to be an agent who speaks fluent Spanish," Gibbs said to Vance. "What about Ortiz?"

Vance shook his head. "Flew to Naples yesterday on temporary assignment. What about David? She has the language skills and weapons training."

This time Gibbs shook his head. "No established cover, we don't want spook this guy until we know who's running the operation."

"Sanchez speaks fluent Spanish, if you have an agent that fits the other criteria, he can translate what you need to know," Fornell offered.

"Who gets to decide what we need to know, Tobias? You?" Gibbs scoffed. "We saw how well that worked when you guys ignored inter-agency protocol for a month."

"Inter-agency protocol?" Fornell shot back. "Since when have you been interested in anything other than the gospel according to Leroy Jethro Gibbs?"

"That's enough!" Vance barked. "If you two can't work together, feel free to excuse yourselves from the investigation!"

The two men remained silent and Vance continued warily.

"Seems to me, the agent we're looking for is right in front of our faces," he said.

Gibbs eyes narrowed as he realised to whom the director was referring. "No!" he replied adamantly. "Don't even think about it!"

"He's a perfect fit," Vance said.

"He's on medical leave!"

"Due back Tuesday anyway, right?" Vance asked. "I know you think he's been hanging on by a thread for the past few weeks but this is what he's trained for, why we sent him for advance training with the Contingency Response Team."

"It's too soon," Gibbs protested. "He's had a serious concussion – you really want to put him undercover again before he's fully fit?"

"Want to? No. Need to? Yes, unless you want to go with Special Agent Rivera?" Vance replied.

"Rivera from the Fraud department?" Gibbs asked incredulously. "He's three months away from retirement and weighs 300 pounds!"

"Look, Gibbs, you can't have it both ways. You said yourself, we need an agent with specialist weapons and explosives training, who speaks fluent Spanish and has an established cover," Vance said. "I don't like this anymore than you do but at the moment, he's our best option. The longer we wait, the more chance there is of more Marines being killed."

Gibbs breathed deeply for a moment, hating the truth of the director's words. He thought briefly of the Marines who had been killed as a result of this weapons stealing organization and knew the choice had to be made. Reluctantly, he picked up the director's desk phone and dialled an extension.

"McGee," he said. "You seen DiNozzo?"

"Yeah, Boss," he replied. "He went to see Ducky to hand in his medical certificate and then he was going to the airport to catch his flight."

"Find him," Gibbs instructed. "I need to see him in the director's office immediately."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Ten minutes had passed since Gibbs had called and McGee had started to grow anxious. He checked with Security and knew that Tony was still somewhere within the building. Amazingly, he'd left Ducky after just fifteen minutes, four anecdotes and one cup of English Breakfast tea. He made a mental note to ask Tony how he had evaded the lovably urbane ME so quickly and kept dialing various departments looking for his wayward senior field agent.

Another five minutes passed and McGee was seriously considering pressing the fire alarm button in a rather desperate attempt to find Tony before Gibbs called again. He had just dismissed the thought when Tony strolled casually into the bullpen.

"Where the hell have you been?" McGee asked. "I've been calling all over the building trying to find you. Did you know your cell's switched off?"

"My cell's off, Probalicious, because I am officially on vacation!" Tony replied happily. "I have my return to work slip signed by my doctor so I can start light duties on Tuesday and I have Ducky's blessing to fly to Connecticut where there's a cabin in the mountains calling my name."

"Unfortunately, Tony, the cabin's not the only thing calling your name – Gibbs wants to see you in Vance's office."

"Now?"

"Fraid so."

"What about?"

"I have no idea."

"This can't be good," Tony muttered. "You gotta cover for me Probie, tell them you couldn't find me."

"What are you gonna do?" McGee asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"You're kidding right?" Tony replied. "I'm gonna make like Elvis and leave the building."

"I don't know Tony, sounded kind of important."

"Oh, come on Probie! My flight's in an hour!" Tony pleaded. "Who covered for you and told the Boss you were home with the flu when you had that book signing engagement in Philly? Huh?"

"Covered for me? You made me install your new home theatre equipment in your apartment, upgrade the software in your laptop and reconfigure your IPod!" McGee moaned.

"Hey! You love doing that stuff and I supplied the equipment, the pizza _and_ the beer! Besides, I had to do your job for the _whole_ day while you got to play literary superstar. Could you imagine what the old man would do to us if he found out about that, McGemcity?"

"Oh, I've got a pretty good idea," Gibbs drawled from directly behind him.

Tony's head snapped around in horror and his face twisted in a grimace as his eyes met the icy blue glare of the lead agent.

"Ha…hi Boss, we were just…um…we were talking about…" Tony stammered, unable to think of anything to say that would get him out of the hole he'd just dug for himself.

Gibbs' expression was as implacable as ever as he stood for a long moment and silently enjoyed watching his senior field agent squirm uncomfortably.

"DiNozzo, with me – now!" he said finally.

"On your six, Boss," Tony replied crisply as he followed Gibbs up the stairs towards the director's office, looking for all the world like a man headed for the gallows.

McGee closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands as he imagined any number of unpleasant tasks the lead agent would send his way as repercussion for his deception.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Matteo Lopez leapt to his feet and rounded his large oaken desk, barely restraining himself from throwing the burn phone through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of his luxurious penthouse office. At 64 years old, with a robust physique, dark hair greying at the temples and an olive complexion, many considered him physically attractive. However, his reputation as a shrewd and uncompromising businessman was well earned and he had made his millions exposing and capitalising on the misfortune of others and forcing hostile take-overs. He was a powerful and intransigent man.

His downtown office provided panoramic views of Washington, DC across the river to Georgetown, the Kennedy Centre and the Capitol building but the picturesque view was the last thing on Lopez' mind at this particular moment.

"What the hell happened, Torres?" he growled. "You told me everything was finalised – that it was a routine weapons exchange and that everything would go according to plan, just like the others! What went wrong?"

"Well, Sir," Torres replied. "Castillo delivered the weapons from COL, we exchanged them as we had planned and Castillo left to deliver the substitute weapons to the warehouse."

"Then how the hell do you explain the fact that we lost four men and almost lost our shipment?" Lopez bellowed.

"We agreed that I could arrange a small number of private weapons sales. I met a man named Forello – a Petty Officer in the Navy – he had connections with some of the local street gangs. Forello organised a buy with the leader of the 18th Street gang who was prepared to pay top dollar for a crate of automatic pistols," Torres explained.

"Don't tell me you were stupid enough to be set up by a cop!"

"No, but Forello was AWOL and wanted by the Navy cops. They followed him to the warehouse."

"You assured me that if I allowed you to make your supplementary weapons deals they would not interfere in any way with the primary operation," Lopez seethed.

"I'm positive the feds weren't looking for us. They were looking for Forello," Torres told him.

"How do you know?" Lopez asked.

"The feds have been looking for him for a week. Forello told me that he thought he'd lost them," Torres replied. "I'm sure if they had any idea what we were doing, they would have hit us will more than four agents – we weren't the intended target."

"Forello got away? What if they catch him?"

"I took care of it. Forello and the gang leader are dead, the feds have no way of tracing them back to us and no way of knowing what we were doing there," Torres asserted.

"No more arranging your own deals, Torres" Lopez hissed. "From now on your first and only priority is to me. Had we not lost Estefan today, I can assure you that I'd be looking for a new lead man not a new weapons specialist."

Torres was not a man easily intimidated but he knew Lopez would kill him without batting an eye.

"The feds got too close today - we have to move faster," Lopez said. "Contact Castillo and organise another shipment in forty-eight hours, if he hesitates, arrange for his daughter to meet with an accident. I trust you can organise another weapons specialist at short notice?"

"I can ask Nunez - he may know someone."

"Do it! But make sure you do a thorough background check. We've come too far and there's too much at stake to get caught at the eleventh hour!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Carlos…I promise you…you don't want to know what will happen to you if you let me down again," Lopez threatened.

Lopez was right - Torres did _not_ want to know.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

A/N I have to confess, inspiration for Gibbs and Fornell in this chapter, came from a cartoon I remember watching as a kid. Ralph was a wolf and Sam a sheepdog. At the beginning of the workday, they both arrived at a sheep-grazing meadow, exchanged pleasant chitchat, and punched into the same time clock. Work having officially begun, Ralph repeatedly tried to abduct the helpless sheep and invariably failed as Sam always seemed one step ahead and thwarted his efforts. At the end of the day whistle, Ralph and Sam punched out their time cards, again chatted amiably, and left, presumably only to come back the next day and do it all again. That's my Gibbs and Fornell!

Thank you for your wonderful support and very kind reviews**. **Hope you'll join me for the next chapter when Tony is called into play. L


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**A/N:- Heeeeeeeeere's Tony! Enjoy, L**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 11**

When Gibbs and Tony entered the director's office, they found Vance and Fornell seated at the conference table. Tony's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"DiNozzo," Fornell greeted, pronouncing Tony's surname with the correct Italian inflection. "Heard you had a run-in with a car – much damage?"

"Thanks for the concern, Toby, but I'm fine," Tony replied.

"Good to know – but I was talking about the car," the FBI agent said without the trace of a smile.

"I don't know what he told you, Director, but it's not true. I haven't killed or maimed anyone and I'm sure I have an alibi...unless it was after I was released from hospital and spent three days on my own, in which case, I refuse to answer any questions without my attorney present."

"Sit down, DiNozzo," Vance instructed, waiting until both Tony and Gibbs were seated before he explained the status of the case, the undercover assignment and asked if Tony had any questions.

"Who do you have undercover?" Tony asked Fornell. "Please tell me it's not Slacks."

"What's wrong with Agent Sacks?" Fornell defended.

"Ha! How long have you got?" Tony laughed humourlessly. "Working with Slacks is right up there on my list of favourite things to do…right between having root canal and waxing my legs!"

"Relax, DiNozzo, it's not Sacks," Gibbs assured him as he recognised the glint in his agent's eye. He checked his watch and wondered how long it would take Tony to wind up the senior FBI agent. He leaned back in his chair to watch the show as Tony continued.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, Boss, 'cos Slacks would have to climb to the top of a very tall ladder to get to the bottom of my shit list!"

"Agent Ray Sanchez will be your undercover partner for this assignment," Fornell bristled, scowling at Tony. "He has been working with Torres' people as a weapons specialist for about four weeks under the name of Ramon Nunez. I spoke with him before you arrived. He's setting up a meeting for you with Carlos Torres tonight - ten-thirty at Guadalajara's Bar and Grill. You'll meet Sanchez at the bar an hour before to discuss the details of your cover."

"So you guys have known about the weapons exchange operation for _weeks_? Any reason we're just hearing about this now?" Tony asked angrily. "What the hell happened to inter-agency protocol?"

"I've already had this dance, DiNozzo. Mind if we get back to business?" Fornell replied curtly, not willing to subject himself to a third round of castigation.

Tony's eyes flicked to Gibbs, who nodded for him to proceed.

"So...Sanchez," Tony repeated, eyes narrowing in thought. "Don't think I know him. He any good?"

"As I told Gibbs, Sanchez is one of my best agents," Fornell replied curtly.

"Well, you'll excuse me if I seem a little sceptical, Toby." Tony replied. "I seem to recall that's what you said about Slacks, just before he arrested me for a murder I didn't commit."

Fornell remained silent but Gibbs could see the FBI agent's composure beginning to fray around the edges.

"How did the FBI get interested in this anyway?" Tony asked in a serious, back to business tone that almost caught Fornell off-guard.

"Metro PD contacted us about the increased fire-power being used in gangland crimes throughout the city," Fornell explained. "There were a few incidents where weapon malfunctions had resulted in serious injuries."

"So you confiscated the weapons and cross-matched the serial numbers," Tony stated.

"That led us to COL as the manufacturer. However, our cross-check revealed that the majority of the serial numbers taken from weapons confiscated from the gang-bangers, were also registered to identical weapons despatched to various Naval or Marine bases."

Tony looked thoughtful for a moment and Gibbs could almost see the cogs of his brain turning as he tried to put the pieces of this case together.

"The manifest!" Tony exclaimed, his eyes widening in dawning comprehension. "Boss, you said Castillo emailed a copy of the manifest, including the weapons serial numbers, several hours before he made the deliveries. That would give the people substituting the weapons, time to put the serial numbers on the phoney weapons so that they'd match the manifest and wouldn't immediately arouse suspicion!"

Gibbs nodded again, feeling a stirring of pride in his gut as, concussion or no concussion, he watched his senior field agent rapidly making up lost ground.

"Weapons are bad enough but this thing has escalated," Fornell said. "A member of a street gang was carrying a block of C-4 in his pocket when he tripped and fell. The C-4 detonated, killing him and injuring four other gang-members."

"Gives a whole new slant to the phrase 'fall down, go boom'," Tony quipped as Fornell sat ramrod straight in his chair and rolled the tension from his shoulders.

"I'm assuming you know, DiNozzo, that C-4 is a pliable substance that usually requires some kind of detonation device to explode," Fornell said sternly.

"Lighten up, Fornell! It was a little joke…okay, so it was a _very_ little joke!" Tony said before changing gears in the conversation again. "What kind of street gang uses C-4?"

"Mara Salvatrucha" Fornell replied, struggling to keep pace with the many faces of Anthony DiNozzo.

"What kind of name is Mara Salvatrucha, for a street gang anyway?" Tony asked. "I mean, really, whatever happened to the Sharks and the Jets? You remember, Toby, from Westside Story? Maria and Tony – nice name – girl meets boy from a rival gang? Natalie Wood played Maria – ooh, what a hottie!"

Fornell expelled a frustrated breath and pressed both palms firmly onto the table indicating he had reached the limit of his patience.

"This isn't going to work," he told Vance. "It's bad enough I get DiNozzo on a good day but, lucky me, I get DiNozzo with a concussion! Who the hell cares where Mara Salvatrucha got its name anyway! I'm sorry, Director, but if DiNozzo is the best agent NCIS can offer than perhaps this should remain a strictly FBI operation!"

The silence hung heavily in the air for several long seconds before Gibbs looked at his watch - two minutes and thirty seconds - almost half a minute off DiNozzo's best time. The senior FBI agent was becoming entirely too predictable and Tony knew just how to yank his chain.

Director Vance was mildly amused; he had become accustomed to the unorthodox, somewhat bizarre mind-games that DiNozzo played so effectively. Hell, he'd witnessed them first hand - anyone who could turn the tables on Mossad Director, Eli David, was not someone to be underestimated. _'NCIS one, FBI zip,'_ he thought before addressing Fornell's concerns.

"Like it or not, Agent Fornell, this will be a joint operation," he said firmly. "I don't presume to tell the FBI which agents they can and can't use and I damn well expect the same professional courtesy."

"Yes, Sir," Fornell replied reluctantly before glancing across the table to Gibbs and cocking his thumb in Tony's direction. "How the _hell_ do you put up with this guy?"

"He's an acquired taste," Gibbs responded with a nonchalant shrug.

"You do realise that I'm still sitting right here," Tony said. "Although, if you'd like to continue talking about me, I can take myself out of earshot…like, say, Connecticut."

Gibbs looked to his senior field agent. "You done playing?" he asked.

"I'm done playing, Boss," Tony answered with a satisfied look on his face, "for now."

"DiNozzo was a cop, Tobias – he probably knows more about street gangs than the three of us combined," Gibbs said.

"I really doubt that, Gibbs," Fornell scoffed.

Lips twitching in a small grin, Gibbs called his agent into play. "Tony?"

"Mara Salvatrucha, commonly known as MS, Mara and MS-13, is a criminal gang that originated in Los Angeles and has spread to Central America, Canada and other parts of the United States – including Washington DC," Tony replied by rote. "The majority of the gang is ethnically composed of Salvadorans, Hondurans, Guatamalans and Nicaraguans…which, by the way, appears to fit nicely into the Central American feel of this case, Boss. Membership in the US is believed to be as many as 50,000. MS-13 criminal activities include drug-smuggling and sales, arms trafficking, auto theft, carjacking, home invasion, assault, aggravated assault, assault on law enforcement officials, drive-by shootings, contract killing, murder and …"

"Okay, okay, I get it, someone shut him up," Fornell snapped.

"DiNozzo, shut up!" Gibbs said.

"Shutting up, Boss," Tony answered with a smug smile for Fornell.

Director Vance had seen and heard enough and summarised the situation again before calling for any other _useful, case-related_ comments.

Unable to restrain himself, Fornell added patronisingly. "Need I remind you of the importance of this case, DiNozzo?"

"Oh, could you, Toby?" he replied sweetly. "But speak real slow, I'm sure I can get it this time."

"Enough!" Vance said curtly. "DiNozzo, the safe house and vehicle you used on your last assignment are available. Check out whatever equipment you'll need - stay in touch with Gibbs whenever it is safe for you to do so. Good luck."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

With the meeting over, Fornell made a hasty exit while Gibbs accompanied Tony to the elevator. When his agent seemed a little subdued, Gibbs flicked the power switch bringing the car to an abrupt halt.

"You up for this?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure, Boss," Tony replied, removing his SIG, slipping out of his shoulder holster and handing them to Gibbs with his ID and wallet. Off duty or on, the ex-detective wore them like a second skin - prepared for any situation.

"You need more time, say the word, we'll find someone else," Gibbs told him.

Tony clearly heard the lead agent's unspoken reticence to send him undercover again before he'd fully recovered from injury. He saw the concern in the older man's eyes as his duty warred with his inherent need to watch the younger man's six.

"I'll be fine, what's the worst that can happen…don't answer that!" he added reverting to humour and the stock standard DiNozzo smile. "Besides, that will take time and Sanchez is already setting up the meet with Torres."

"Something else on your mind?" Gibbs asked.

"Only that I've blown another airfare to Connecticut," Tony replied whimsically.

"Just watch your six," Gibbs said gruffly, flicking the power back on. "Get back here without getting your ass shot off and you can have a _week_ in Connecticut."

"All expenses paid?" Tony asked hopefully, before recognizing the look on Gibbs' face. "Didn't think so."

He nodded a mute farewell, his eyes full of things that would never be spoken. For all they'd been through together, the words had rarely been said...they had rarely needed to be.

Tony exited the elevator only to be halted by Gibbs' call.

"DiNozzo!"

"Boss?"

"_Keep_ the whiskers!"

"I gotcha, Boss!" Tony said, running his knuckles across the bristly growth and flashing a cheeky grin.

As he turned toward the exit of the building Gibbs watched Tony leave, silently cursing the fact that he was headed into another undercover assignment rather than a long weekend of rest and relaxation in a mountain cabin. He knew Vance was right – if they were going to get their own man on the inside of this operation, Tony was their best chance. He just wished that Tony were going in 100 percent fit, wearing a wire and with plenty of well-armed backup.

Reality dictated that there would be no wires and no backup waiting for Tony's signal. Just an agent, not yet completely recovered from a serious concussion and forced to rely on his own wits, investigative skills and an FBI agent he had never met, to shut this operation down. Gibbs had every confidence in Tony's ability but it was the unknown FBI factor that set his gut churning – despite Fornell's high praise. He juggled Tony's weapon, holster and ID into one hand, removed his cell from the pocket of his sports jacket and pressed the speed dial.

"Abs, I need you to… What?… He just left…Who said?...McGee should be working not spreading scuttlebutt...Don't like it either but it had to be done… He can take care of himself…Abs, _Abby!_ I need you to get me a copy of an FBI personnel file… I know they're classified… _Geez, Abs, if it was easy I could do it myself_… Ramon Sanchez… He'll be Tony's partner on this assignment… No, I've never met him… No, I _can't_ ask Fornell…I want to check him out myself, I wanna know who's watching Tony's six… What?… No, I don't think that's the cutest thing I've ever heard…Abs, _Abs!…__Can you get me the damn file?_… Good… and Abs… this is just between us," he said, snapping his cell closed and releasing an audible sigh.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Tony looked longingly at his much-loved car as he walked through the NCIS parking lot to the motor pool. He greeted the duty clerk and signed out the beaten up, dual cab Chevy Silverado, parked in the back corner and still registered in the name of Gus Bricker.

He drove to his apartment building, took the elevator to the eighth floor and let himself into his apartment. He entered the master bedroom, threw some well-worn clothes into a duffle and opened the wall safe located in his walk-in closet. He extracted a Beretta 92FS and three spare clips. Despite his exclusive use of the Sig Sauer since his arrival at NCIS, the Beretta had been his weapon of choice in his days as a cop and still felt comfortable and familiar in his hand. Choosing not to use a holster, he tucked the weapon into the waist of his jeans, feeling a strange comfort in the cold steel against the small of his back. Although the weapon was not officially registered, the ballistic signature had been taken and was held in a secured file by NCIS in case it needed to be identified.

He removed his designer watch and felt around in the safe until he found the cheap and nasty substitute that was more in keeping with Gus Bricker's gaudy taste. As he struggled briefly with the stubborn catch, he grimaced at the memory of the cheap watchband turning his wrist green. He flipped open the faux leather wallet and looked at the drivers licence that bore his face but identified him as Gus Bricker.

For all intents and purposes, Bricker was a flaky, dangerous, sleaze-bag - an ex-con, dishonourably discharged from the marines for possession of methamphetamines. A gun-runner, small weapons expert, total low-life and someone who had managed to stay two steps in front of the law since his parole from Leavenworth in December 1995.

Finally, he reached for the last object in the safe – a cell phone. It was, by necessity, unregistered but had a small tracking chip in case of emergencies. Speed dial 1 was the direct link to an identical burn phone that Gibbs would have firmly in his grasp until Tony was safely back within his ranks – of that, Tony was certain.

He rubbed at his throbbing temples and walked to the bathroom for some Tylenol. He washed down two, grabbed his pre-packed bathroom kit from the vanity and tossed it into the open duffle on the bed. He caught his image in the mirror and winced at his tired and bedraggled reflection and his bristly growth. '_At least I look the part,'_ he thought.

He looked around his stylishly furnished apartment once more, battling a rare, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

'Get it together, Anthony,' he urged. 'It's just another assignment. Get in, get the intel, get out – piece of cake!'

He shrugged off any remaining feelings of foreboding, hoisted the duffle carefully to his bruised shoulder and, once again, left his life as Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo behind him.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes – Tony should be meeting with FBI Agent Sanchez at Guadalajara's Bar and Grill. Abby had 'come through' again with a copy of Sanchez's FBI Personnel file and as he poured through each page, he felt the vice-like grip on his famous gut slowly start to release.

According to his file, Ramon Sanchez was four years older than Tony and had been an FBI Agent for 18 years. Born in Honduras, his family immigrated to the USA when Ray was six years old. They became American citizens four years later. Sanchez joined the FBI straight after college and had subsequently been awarded with numerous citations for bravery and outstanding service. He was divorced and had two young children who lived with their mother in Phoenix, Arizona.

Gibbs read through the job assessment reports from Sanchez's various supervisors. All described him as an honest, hard-working agent and an outstanding undercover operative.

A shadow cast itself over his desk and his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat and nervously shuffling their feet. His face was expressionless as he raised his head to TAD agent, Aaron Morrison.

"Something I can do for you, Morrison?" he asked tersely.

"Ah, yes, Sir," Morrison replied. "I'd like to discuss what happened this morning."

Gibbs rose slowly to his full height and stood menacingly in front of the young agent before gesturing for Morrison to follow him to the elevator.

Morrison looked confused but followed obediently on the heels of the lead agent as they entered the elevator and the doors closed behind them. He schooled his expression as Gibbs flicked the power switch and brought the car to an immediate stop.

"You disregarded orders, broke cover and nearly got yourself and McGee killed," Gibbs hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I…I'm sorry, Sir," Morrison stuttered.

On this occasion, Gibbs allowed his own rule to be broken as - sign of weakness or not - an apology was damn well warranted.

"Answer the question, Morrison, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I wanted to improve my position, Sir, er, Agent Gibbs," Morrison replied. "I wanted to get the photos we needed for identification."

"You wanted to be a hero," Gibbs stated. "The one to break the case."

"I wanted to prove my worth, Agent Gibbs, to show you that I'm ready for a shot on your team, even, er, if it's just a temporary assignment."

"So you violated standard procedures and blatantly disregarded orders… _to impress me?"_

"Yes, I mean, no."

"Which is it?" Gibbs barked.

"Yes," Morrison reluctantly admitted.

"And while you were trying to be a hero, who was watching your partner's back?"

"I, er,"

"Nobody!" Gibbs growled, stepping into Morrison's personal space. "You wanna be on a team, you follow orders and learn how to be a team player or you'll see out your retirement in the Records Department! You got that?"

"Yes, Sir," Morrison replied crisply.

The tension radiated in the closeness of the elevator and the sudden silence was oppressive. To his credit, Morrison had come to Gibbs rather than sulking or waiting to be summoned. He stood tall, held his head high and squared his shoulders, ready to face whatever retribution Gibbs saw fit - he couldn't help but admire Morrison's guts.

As Ducky had suggested, he thought back nine years to an eager ex-detective whose enthusiasm he continually had to rein in and kick in the pants. That impulsive, somewhat reckless, young man had developed into the best young agent he'd ever worked with – maybe there was hope for Morrison yet – but this was a lesson he needed to learn and learn fast or someone would die.

He flicked the power back on and the elevator flooded with light before the doors opened.

"I'm writing you up but there'll be no further action taken," Gibbs said. " Screw up again and I'll kick your ass all the way back to San Diego, is that clear?"

"Crystal, Sir," Morrison answered.

"Be at your desk by zero six hundred or don't bother coming back!" he said.

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir," Morrison replied as Gibbs exited the elevator and headed out for coffee.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Tony walked into Guadalajara's Bar and Grill to meet with FBI Agent Sanchez and winced as the lively Latin-American style music nudged his headache up a couple of notches. He looked around the large room at the patrons obviously enjoying the light atmosphere. Utilising his investigative skills he noted three men sitting alone, one at the bar, one in a rear booth and one at a table near the dance floor. He took a seat at the opposite end of the bar and ordered a beer he really didn't feel like drinking.

He watched the three men surreptitiously, wondering which was Sanchez and when he would make his approach. Ten minutes passed before the man seated in the booth walked toward him.

"Bricker?" he asked.

"Nunez?" Tony responded, using Sanchez' cover name.

They shook hands and the FBI Agent ordered another round of drinks before leading Tony back to the booth at the rear of the bar. The booth was well placed, Tony noted – they could see both entrances clearly and the volume of the music was low enough that they didn't have to raise their voices but loud enough to prevent their conversation being overheard.

They immediately got down to business, exchanging cell numbers and establishing the cover story of when and where Gus Bricker had met Ramon Nunez and how their "dubious professions" had brought them together at various times through the years.

Ray was of average height and weight, leanly muscled and deceptively athletic. He had black receding hair and dark eyes that darted around the room always searching for danger. He was quietly spoken and as they got to know each other a little, Tony found the man had a dry sense of humour and a likeable quality about him.

"I spoke to Fornell about you," Ray told him.

"Yeah? Well, Fornell and I have form," Tony explained. "You know what he's like, stodgy, rigid, old school."

"He told me you were a damn good agent."

"And…he's a mighty fine judge of character," Tony grinned.

"He also told me you were the biggest pain in the ass he'd ever met."

"Okay, well…I should probably cop to that," Tony replied. "But Toby's an easy mark."

"Toby?"

"It's what his friends call him," Tony answered sarcastically.

"Fornell has friends?" Ray asked in mock surprise.

"I know, go figure!" Tony grinned, liking this man more and more.

"Speaking of names, how'd you come up with a name like Gus?" Ray asked.

"I love Gus!" Tony beamed in response.

Ray shook his head and grinned before explaining how he had infiltrated the operation when the FBI had begun investigating the influx of heavy weapons and explosives in street-gangs. Tony was tempted to try his "fall down, go boom" joke again but decided against it – at least until he got to know Ray a little better. Ray had set-up his cover as a buyer and soon after, he had been approached by Carlos Torres to act as an ordinance and weapons specialist.

Ray was aware that Torres was only the front man and he had been frustrated by the lack of opportunity to gather more intel on the man funding the operation and the reason the weapons were being stockpiled.

Earlier this morning, Torres had gunned down two men in cold blood before Ray had a chance to prevent it. He had proven to be as dangerous as he was unpredictable and he rarely let his guard down. Ray was hopeful that bringing Tony – or Gus – into the realm would enable them to acquire the information they needed to make the necessary arrests and wrap this assignment up. He'd been undercover for a month and he needed his life back.

"Fornell said you speak fluent Spanish," Ray asked.

"Yep."

"Let's keep that between us. If Torres doesn't know you speak the language, he may be less cautious around you and say something we can use."

Tony nodded in agreement. "What about this morning's blown surveillance? You sure Torres doesn't suspect he's being watched?"

"Positive - we got real lucky there - Torres believes that NCIS were trailing Forello," Ray replied. "Hell, Forello _told_ him that right before Torres killed him. He's pissed as hell that Estefan got caught in the cross-fire and we almost lost a whole shipment of weapons but he thinks he's in the clear."

"That reminds me, I owe you one," Tony said. "That was my partner who ran into your fist with his face. He's a good agent and a good guy – despite his glass jaw.

Tony noted the slight tensing of Ray's shoulders as the older man looked toward the main entrance of the bar.

"Heads up, Gus," he said. "Torres just arrived."

Ray stood and waved at Torres to join them. Torres nodded his head in acknowledgement and stopped by the bar to buy a drink. His kohl-dark eyes scrutinised Tony as he neared the booth and then took a seat. Ray introduced them and watched as Torres openly rejected Tony's extended hand. Unperturbed, Tony shrugged, picked up his beer and took a long draught.

"Gus Bricker," Torres growled the name. "You don't look like a Marine."

"Funny, that's what they told me the day they handed me the dishonourable discharge," Tony replied.

"Remind me," Torres said. "Why were you deemed unfit for the Corps?"

"What can I tell ya, I didn't like the haircut," Tony replied. "And…I may have had a small problem with authority."

"My sources say methamphetamines," Torres stated. "Are you still using?"

"Been clean since '93 – a forced vacation in Leavenworth will do that to a guy. Look man, let me make this easy for you," Tony said. "You need a weapons man and I'm between gigs and could use the cash. You obviously had me checked out so you know that I had weapons training in the military and know my way around more kinds of small arms, light weapons and explosive ordnance than you've had hot dinners. If you're serious then let's talk, if not, I got places to be. "

Torres impaled him with a furious glare, not used to being spoken to so abruptly but when Tony stood and started for the door, Torres grabbed him by the forearm.

"Sit," he said. "Let's talk," he added reluctantly when Tony didn't move.

Tony shrugged off Torres' hold and remained standing a moment longer, his eyes never leaving Torres' as he resumed his seat.

"Ray says you're one of the best," Torres said. "What kind of weapons do you handle?"

"Revolvers, pistols, submachine guns, assault rifles, squad automatic weapons and light machine guns to hand grenades, mortars, C-4, and RPG's," Tony replied. "If you got 'em, I can handle 'em."

"And you'd be willing to back-up those claims, say, tomorrow?"

"You want me to put up or shut up?" Tony smiled.

"Call it, an audition," Torres replied.

"I can do that - for the right price. Name the time and place, I'll be there."

"I assume Ray has your number?" Torres said.

"He does."

"Stay by the phone, you'll be contacted tomorrow."

"Good enough," Tony said getting to his feet and heading for the door.

"Bricker," Torres called. "Do you speak Spanish?"

Tony shrugged. "A few words – enough to get my face slapped by a pretty senorita. That a problem?"

Torres looked thoughtful. "Only for the pretty senoritas," he replied. "Stay by the phone."

Tony nodded to Ray and left the bar stopping briefly outside the door to breathe the fresh air and rub the heel of his hand against his throbbing left temple. He zipped up his jacket and turned the collar up to ward off the chill in the air as he flexed his jaw, set his shoulders and plunged himself back into the world of Gus Bricker – a world of criminals, danger and the constant fear of discovery.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**A/N Thank you to all those who have placed this story on their "favourites" list or who have placed it on alert. Special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to provide me with your thoughts and feedback. I hope you are all enjoying the story and that you will join me for the next chapter. **

**Also, many thanks to those of you who left your insightful comments on my guest post on Moki's Fan Fiction Blog. To those of you who haven't yet done so, don't be shy, we'd love to hear from you. The link is on my profile page. ****L**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 12**

Tony sighed in resignation as he turned the key in the deadlock of the dual purpose NCIS safe house that was still leased in the name of Gus Bricker. It was a sparsely furnished and barely habitable dwelling, evidenced by the unmistakable sound of the scurry of little feet as he flicked the light on and spotted at least four large black insects quickly seeking refuge in the cracks of the walls.

"Anthony, bienvenido a la casa de las cucarachas!" he muttered as he welcomed himself back to the house of the cockroaches.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and washed down a few more Tylenol, hoping to rid himself of the incessant pounding headache. Toeing off his shoes, he lowered his still battered body, carefully onto the lumpy, well-worn couch.

He removed his cell from his pocket and pressed speed dial 1, grinning when the call was answered on the first ring.

"Waiting up for my call, Pa?" he smiled; ridiculously comforted by the thought that someone _was_ waiting up for him.

"How'd it go?" came the non-committal reply.

"It went fine, I'm meeting Torres again tomorrow – an audition of sorts, I got the feeling he wants to put me through my paces before I get the gig."

"Sounds like it," Gibbs agreed.

"He'd already checked me out though, knew about the DD from the Corps and the meth," Tony said. "You should have McGee check Bricker's record, maybe he can find a way to back trace whoever accessed that file."

"You get anything else?" Gibbs asked.

"Fornell was right, Boss. Seems Torres really does believe that NCIS were at the warehouse following Forello. Sanchez says Torres killed Forello and the gang-banger, Johnson. He thinks he's home free."

"Sanchez have any idea who's running this operation?"

"Not yet. The only contact seems to be via Torres' cell but Sanchez hasn't been able to get near it. We'll keep trying," Tony replied. "We could use one of McGee's gadgets to copy the user data in Torres' cell."

"Check your mailbox before you leave in the morning," Gibbs told him. "I'll have one delivered tonight."

"You know, Boss, with Torres, Estefan and Castillo all being Salvadorans, it's a pretty fair bet that the man calling the shots is also from El Salvador and that's where these weapons are headed."

"Had the same thought," Gibbs agreed.

"I'm just saying, that's a pretty obvious place to start and the men in black have been working this case a lot longer than us - why wouldn't they have checked that angle?"

"Maybe they did and got nothing," Gibbs suggested. "Wouldn't be the first time the FBI refused to liaise with another agency in case they had to share the glory."

"Maybe your old commanding officer at Southern Command's heard of some trouble in the area," Tony said around a yawn.

"He resigned his commission after the Paraguay case," Gibbs said. "I'll give him a call - knowing the skipper, he's still got some contacts at SouthCom. If not, I'll call in a marker from the CIA."

"Who?" Tony asked warily.

"Kort," Gibbs replied.

"No, I don't trust him, Boss."

"If it gets you home faster, what do you care?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not come home in a pine box!" Tony replied.

"You keep your mind on what you're doing," Gibbs said emphatically. "Leave Kort to me."

In the brief silence that followed, Tony knew there'd be no changing the older man's mind. He sighed heavily, too tired to continue arguing the point.

"So, Boss… what can you tell me about Ray Sanchez?" he asked. "He a good agent?"

"You were standing right there when Fornell told us Sanchez was one of his best men."

"Come on, Boss, this is me! You'd never put an agent in the field without knowing who had his back! You really wanna tell me that you didn't get your hands on a copy of Sanchez's personnel file?"

Gibbs grinned at how well his senior field agent had come to know him but remained silent as Tony continued.

"FBI personnel files are stored on a secured database, so you would have had to get McGee, no wait… Abby, to hack in and get it for you." Tony surmised. "Then you would have got her a little something for helping you out…ah, let's see…an extra large Caf-Pow?"

"Nope…something called a Chocoholics Choice," Gibbs replied.

"Ahh…the ultimate cupcake," Tony said. He had no doubt that, this time, Abby would ensure that the delicious treat stayed well out of the larcenous reach of Light-Fingers McGee. "Sanchez seems a nice guy, Boss, I like him. He a good agent?"

"He's a good agent, a few citations, smart. Just do what you have to do to get the intel and get the hell outta there."

"I gotcha, Boss," Tony replied around another yawn.

"You home?" Gibbs asked.

"Just me and the cockroaches, kicking back and hanging out. You know, Boss, we really need a bigger budget, this place is a dive."

"So you keep saying," Gibbs said with mock exasperation. "Bricker's a sleaze-bag, Tony, can't have him staying at the Ritz-Carlton."

"You never heard of a rich sleaze-bag?" Tony asked despondently.

Momentary silence hung heavily between them. For over nine years he had been carefully studying Tony's body language, figuring that if the man wouldn't tell him when he was troubled or unwell, perhaps his body would. He was frustrated as hell that, tonight, he was forced to analyse his agent's condition by the sound of his voice – a voice Tony used with his humour and his flippant attitude to build a fortress with no footholds around his innermost feelings.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure, Boss…I'd be a lot better if this place had cable and heat and decent plumbing…maybe one of those magic fingers massage beds, you know, like the ones they have in… never mind."

"Hit the rack," he instructed. "Check in tomorrow…and DiNozzo…watch your six."

"Al-ways," Tony drawled before cutting the connection.

Lost in thought, Gibbs kept the cell to his ear several minutes after Tony had disconnected the call. He shook his head and tried to convince himself that his sense of dread had more to do with the status of the case than his concerns over Tony's health. Either way, his gut was telling him that something bad was about to happen.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

When Gibbs entered the bullpen at zero five thirty the following morning, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, he was not surprised to find McGee and Ziva already hard at work at their desks. It was a sign of their commitment to each other that when one was in the field undercover, the others worked long and hard to solve the case and bring their team mate safely home.

"Good morning, Gibbs," Ziva greeted.

"Where are we?" Gibbs asked as he rounded his desk.

"Morning, Boss, I arranged for the night duty team to deliver a UDTD…er..a User Data Transfer Device to the mailbox of Tony's safe house last night," McGee said. "If Tony can attach it to Torres' cell it will record the user data such as phonebook, incoming and outgoing call history, SMS, and photos. We already know from Castillo that Torres has a burn phone, but he may have been careless and made a call to, or received a call from, a number we can trace. Oh, and I checked with Agent Fornell - Ray Sanchez has a small location beacon in his cell just like Tony. The FBI is monitoring that."

"Castillo has the number of Torres' burn phone. Can we not trace that and monitor his whereabouts?" Ziva asked.

"No. To trace a burn phone, we need to know the ESN…the electronic serial number, not the phone number, and the GPS facility has to be on," McGee explained. "But if Tony can manage to transfer the data from Torres' phone, it will include the ESN."

Gibbs nodded. "What else?"

"We have Abby's latest test results on the origin of the explosives contained in the faulty grenade. The tests indicate that the grenade was manufactured in Central America," Ziva said. "The US does not have any trade agreement for the importation of explosive ordnance or weapons of any kind from that part of the world due to various embargos and the failure to meet with US safety standards. Therefore, these weapons must be being smuggled in illegally."

"The FBI have been concentrating their resources on airports, but we think the weapons were probably brought in by ship, rather than by plane, as the screening and security regulations at all US airports have been escalated since 9/11," McGee added.

"Due to the size of the shipments from COL, we believe it is unlikely these weapons were transported in one large shipment," Ziva continued. "Therefore, it is more likely that smaller quantities of the weapons were brought into the country in several shipments to avoid being detected by Customs."

"We know the operation is based here in Washington, so Norfolk Shipping Yard would be the logical entry point. That would mean we are looking for a freighter or container ship that makes regular trips between Central America and Norfolk" McGee advised. "We were about to contact Port Authority for a list of vessels that fit that criteria."

"Worth making contact with that ICE Agent, Julia whats-her-name," Gibbs said.

"Jules?" McGee asked, failing to hide his delight. "Um…I mean…that would be U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Special Agent Julia Foster-Yates."

"Whatever. Tell her what we're dealing with, see if she has any intel to offer."

"Right, Boss," McGee said crisply.

"McGee, make sure she knows we have men undercover whose lives could be at risk if this isn't handled discreetly."

"Jules is very discreet, Boss," McGee assured.

Gibbs gave the younger man a quizzical look. "I'll be with the director," he said before walking toward the elevator.

"So, McGee - Jules?" Ziva said mischievously. "It seems you have been holding out on us. Care to share how you know that Special Agent Foster-Yates can be so… discreet?"

"Now who's channelling Tony?" McGee muttered as he felt the heat of a blush stain his cheeks.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

As the elevator doors began to open, Gibbs rushed quickly forward to enter the car, colliding heavily with TAD Agent Morrison. The collision knocked the plastic lid from Morrison's coffee cup, spilling some of the scalding contents over his freshly laundered shirt.

"Oh for Pete's sake, why don't you watch where you're going?" Morrison growled, then took a large step back when he looked up to find himself impaled by a pair of stern blue eyes.

"Agent Gibbs, I'm sorry…didn't know it was you," he said nervously.

"You're late, Morrison," Gibbs said.

Quickly turning his wrist to check his watch, Morrison spilt more hot coffee over his hand and bit back another curse.

"You said zero six hundred – it's only zero five forty-five."

"You wanna work with my team, you keep the same hours," Gibbs replied abruptly. If he was going to test this kid's resolve he may as well start now.

"Yes, Sir," Morrison replied.

Gibbs caught the rich aroma emanating from the coffee cup.

"You put sugar in that?" he asked.

"No, Sir," Morrison replied.

"Good," Gibbs said, swiping the cup from Morrison's hand.

He pushed his way passed the confused young man and pressed the button for the doors to close. Morrison's mouth hung open as the doors closed and the lead agent's voice rang out again. "And change your damn shirt!"

Morrison took a deep breath and entered the bullpen, wondering if he would ever find out what it took to get on the good side of the lead agent.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Tony woke to find that his sickening headache had refused to relinquish its hold on him. Between that and the world's most uncomfortable bed – sleep was scarce. He felt tired and listless, certainly not in any condition to start an undercover assignment.

His hopes of a soothing shower were dashed when he found the water-heater lifeless and unresponsive and was forced to take a cold shower. Thirty minutes later, he was still shivering and urging cold fingers to respond as he unsuccessfully searched for something edible in the kitchen. He knew things were bad when he found himself wishing for one of Palmer's eggplants. He reached for the coffee jar and, finding it empty, slammed it down hard on the kitchen counter and cursed loudly.

He took a deep, wavering breath and closed his eyes, seeking to calm himself when someone knocked loudly on his door. The Beretta was in his hand and the safety thumbed off in one smooth motion. He ruthlessly suppressed a sudden bout of dizziness that threatened to pitch him to the floor and with his heart keeping pace with the throbbing in his temples; he cautiously approached the door when a familiar voice rang out.

"Bricker?"

He recognised the voice of Ray Sanchez and exhaled loudly as the tension eased from his body and he opened the door.

"Morning! Did I wake you?" Ray asked, way too cheery for Tony's liking.

"I wish," Tony grumbled and gestured the FBI agent inside.

Sanchez looked around the bleak accommodation and whistled softly.

"I thought the Bureau was tight with its money," he grimaced. "The guys from Queer Eye couldn't help this place."

"Tell me about it, even the cockroaches are demanding better living conditions," Tony muttered. "And speaking of cockroaches, any word from Torres?"

"He wants to meet with you at noon," Ray said. "He'll call us with a location later. Have you eaten? I thought you might like to get some breakfast - while we wait for Torres to call back, we can discuss our game plan," Ray said, looking at Tony with concern. "You don't look so good, you okay?"

"Yeah, man, just didn't get much sleep," Tony replied.

"I know what you mean. Who knew that after all these years I'd still suffer from pre-game jitters."

"You played ball?" Tony asked.

"Football, Minnesota '88 – go Gophers! You?"

"Ohio State '92." Tony replied proudly.

"Grab your coat, Buckeye – you're buying!"

Ray had an easy-going, affable manner that Tony had taken an instant liking to. He flashed a grin at the older man, reached for his coat and followed him out the door.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Come." Director Vance's voice sounded through the closed office door and Gibbs let himself in.

"You wanted to see me, Director?"

"Yes, Gibbs," the director said, looking up from his paperwork. "SecNav is demanding an update on your investigation in an hour. Any new developments?"

"DiNozzo established contact with Torres. He's meeting with him again today to test his ordnance skills," Gibbs said before bringing the director up to date with the status of their other enquiries. "You have any luck with the CIA?"

"As uncooperative as ever," Vance replied, with more than a hint of disapproval. "Call me an optimist but I keep hoping that one day the CIA will realise that we're all on the same damn team!"

"Not in our lifetime, Leon," Gibbs replied. "Might have better luck going through the back door."

"You have a contact?"

"Trent Kort." Gibbs replied.

"Kort's a dangerous man with his own agenda and no love for DiNozzo," Vance said. "He's just as likely to hang him out to dry."

"Kort owes me. He knows if he blows Tony's cover, I'd kill him myself. "

Vance reflected on Gibbs' words. The lead agent and DiNozzo connected in a way he couldn't fully define. It was a closeness born of shared experience and shared pain, of common goals and viewpoints, of deep respect and trust and mutual support through the worst and best of times. Vance knew that Gibbs wasn't a man to make idle threats and he almost felt sorry for Kort – almost.

"The FBI finally agreed to send over the evidence from the C-4 explosion that killed the gang-banger," the director told him. "The Bureau believes the C-4, while outside US safety standards, was still very stable and should have been able to withstand such a light impact."

"In other words, they have no idea what caused it to explode."

"Not a clue. I had the samples sent to Miss Scuito, she's re-running the tests now in case they missed something."

"If anyone can find it, Abby can," Gibbs said turning for the door.

"Keep me posted," the director unnecessarily called after him.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs was on his way to the forensics lab when the muted sound of an explosion jerked the elevator to a sudden stop and the emergency lighting kicked in. Ridiculously, his first thoughts were of DiNozzo's warnings that the elevator would exact its revenge when Gibbs least expected, however, the subsequent fire alarm had his heart leaping into his mouth – Abby!

For several minutes he tried desperately to prise the doors open with his hands, thumping them painfully against the wall when they wouldn't budge more than an inch! He repeatedly pressed the emergency intercom button on the wall of the elevator and waited impatiently for someone to answer.

After what seemed like hours but was actually minutes, the calm voice of a security guard sounded from the speakers, asking if he was in need of medical assistance. The guard confirmed the explosion had occurred in the forensic lab and told Gibbs that a maintenance crew would be there to release him as soon as possible.

He removed his cell and called Ziva, growling in frustration when the call went to voicemail. Another well placed but futile kick to the elevator doors, only served to exacerbate the horrific scenarios playing out in his head. He called McGee and breathed a sigh of relief when he answered on the second ring.

"Boss, are you okay?" he asked, shouting above the still ringing fire alarm.

"McGee! How's Abby?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"She's fine, Boss," McGee replied. "Ducky's checking her out now."

"She's fine?" he asked again to confirm.

"A little shaken and she took in some smoke but she's fine. The emergency crews have extinguished the fire and sealed off the lab until the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team gives the all clear."

"Find someone to get me out of here!" he ordered.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the damned elevator!" Gibbs growled. He was grateful that DiNozzo wasn't there to gloat over his predicament but certain that his senior agent would hear the scuttlebutt within moments of his return to work.

Within five minutes he was liberated from his forced confinement and rushed to the autopsy rooms. TAD Agent Morrison was seated on an autopsy table, coughing into an oxygen mask as Jimmy Palmer applied a blood pressure cuff and encouraged him to slow his breathing.

Looking further into the rooms, Gibbs noticed Abby seated in Ducky's office, with a blanket wrapped around her and an oxygen mask held to her face. Ziva was holding her hand and offering comfort.

"What the hell happened?" Gibbs asked McGee.

"Abby was re-running the tests on the samples of C-4 that the FBI sent over," McGee explained. "Aaron, had an idea about the blasting caps and came down to speak with her about them. He heard the explosion, heard Abby yell, he ran into the lab and carried her out of there."

"Palmer?"

"His blood pressure is a little high and he inhaled some smoke but his lungs sound clear and there's no dizziness," Jimmy replied. "He should stay on the oxygen for another hour or so but he'll be fine."

Gibbs started towards Ducky's office then stopped abruptly and turned to face the young agent.

"Morrison!" he said, startling another round of coughing from the young man. Gibbs waited until the agent regained his breath and added a heartfelt, "Good job!"

Momentarily stuck for words, Morrison gave a quick nod as Palmer and McGee both patted him firmly on the back in acknowledgement of his action.

"Way to go, Probie!" McGee said.

"Actually, Tim, I'm not really fond of being called Probie," Morrison said, punctuating the statement with several coughs. "I find it a little demeaning."

"Lighten up, Probalicious, you'll get used to it – it just takes a little time," McGee assured him, echoing Tony's words of five years ago.

"Really? How long did it take you to get used to it?"

"I'll let you know when it happens," McGee said dryly.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Ducky had just completed his otoscope examination of Abby's ears as Gibbs walked into the office and pulled her into a fierce hug.

"How is she, Duck?" he asked, anxiously running his eyes over her and looking for any signs of injury.

"She's fine, Jethro, just fine and a very lucky young lady," Ducky replied smiling calmly. "All fingers and toes are accounted for, her lungs are clear and the oxygen is just precautionary."

"Abs, what the hell happened?" Gibbs asked.

"I can't hear you, Gibbs, you'll have to speak up!" Abby shouted.

"Ducky!" Gibbs said in alarm.

"It's quite all right, Jethro," the ME replied. "Abigail has a very loud ringing in her ears but suffered no damage to her eardrums that I can determine. Her hearing should return to normal within an hour or two."

"Are… you…okay?" Gibbs asked loudly.

"Yes, it _is_ a nice day," Abby replied, unaware that she was shouting. "At least it _was_ until the explosion but it could have been worse, right? I mean, someone could have been killed! _I_ could have been killed, so I guess, when you look at it that way, Gibbs, it is a _very nice day."_

Abby's pale face lost even more colour and her expression changed to one of panic.

"Please, Gibbs, _please_ tell me no-one else got hurt! Is Aaron okay? He's not hurt is he? He saved me, Gibbs; he ran right into my lab and carried me to safety! It was very Officer and A Gentleman – except he wasn't wearing one of those hot Navy officers' uniforms and except for the explosion, of course!"

Gibbs pointed to where Morrison sat talking with McGee and Palmer. Abby sighed with relief.

"Oh thank God!" she said, still unknowingly shouting. "I guess we were lucky, I mean, not _that_ lucky because of the explosion and all but, like, as far as explosions go this was just a _little_ explosion."

"A _little_ explosion, Abs?" Gibbs said, astounded. "They felt the blast two floors above you!"

"They felt it where, Gibbs?" Abby yelled. "You have to speak up!"

"_Above you! Above you!"_ Gibbs raised his voice to match Abby's.

"Aww, that's so sweet...I love you too, Gibbs."

Ziva's lips twitched into a smile that disappeared quickly when Gibbs threw a glare her way.

He stepped back and raised his hands to sign.

_I think it may be easier to communicate like this until your hearing returns._ Gibbs signed quickly.

_Okay._ Abby signed in reply. _But I still love you, Gibbs._

Expelling a huge sigh of relief at her lucky escape, the lead agent leaned in and kissed his favourite forensic specialist on the forehead. _'I love you, too, Abs!'_ he thought.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**Thanks again for reading, I hope you're enjoying the story. L**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 13**

Ray Sanchez didn't miss the fact that Tony pushed his breakfast around the plate without really eating much at all. He'd done his homework and knew that the NCIS agent was a highly regarded and experience undercover operative - he was certain that nerves weren't the reason for the lack of appetite. He considered the fine lines of pain around the other man's eyes and watched as Tony tossed back a few headache tablets.

"You sure you're up to this?" Ray asked.

"Never felt better," Tony answered automatically.

Fornell had told him that, a few years back, DiNozzo had battled the pneumonic plague. If he could survive that, the aftereffects of a concussion would be a walk in the park - even though, Ray suspected, there was a little more going on than a lingering headache. He decided not to push the matter and they enjoyed a nice breakfast, laughing as they swapped old football and basketball stories and re-lived their glory days as college athletes.

"You know, Ohio State is playing Minnesota, weekend after next." Ray said. "What say we get this job done, you provide the big screen TV, I'll provide hotdogs and beer and we'll watch the game together? After the game, we'll hit a few bars and the loser has to stand on a chair and sing the winning team's fight song!"

He watched Tony's face light up in the first real smile he'd seen from him.

"Make it steak and at least four bars and you're on!" Tony grinned. "And when you get to the line _'Our honor defend, s__o we'll fight to the end, for Ohio' _you gotta put your heart into it – none of this half-ass mumbling stuff."

"Then I expect you to lift the roof with the line '_Rah Rah Ski-U-Mah_!'" Ray countered, returning the grin.

"Deal!" Tony said, as they shook hands to seal the bet.

With their wager in place and their sporting highlights packed away for another time, they turned their attention back to the assignment. Ray explained to Tony that Torres had a "crew" of men who assembled, packaged and crated the various types of high-powered, automatic weapons and explosives. Three of those men had been killed during the ill-fated surveillance at the Ravensworth warehouse. Ray wasn't sure exactly how many men were on Torres' payroll but they were all Salvadoran and at least six were present at every weapons transaction.

"You know where their base is?" Tony asked.

"Nope, I've been working with them for four weeks but I always meet them at one of their warehouses. Torres doesn't trust anyone, you're gonna have to be on your game, Buckeye!"

Torres had hired Ray and Estefan as weapons specialists, responsible for over-seeing the work of his crew and checking each weapon before it was packaged and crated. The weapons were usually delivered to the nominated warehouses in pieces and they were often given just a few hours to assemble and to stamp the serial numbers on hundreds of weapons. Estefan's death had provided them with the opportunity to bring Tony into the fold.

"These guys mercenaries?" Tony asked.

Ray shook his head. "I doubt it. They're tough-looking hombres but they don't have the handling skills or the weapons knowledge to be professional soldiers. More likely paid muscle."

They discussed how best to attach the UDTD they intended to use on Torres' cell phone and they ensured that they each had a locator beacon chip inserted into their own cells in case things went downhill fast. Once more, for luck, they confirmed their cover story of where and when they had met – there was no room for slip-ups.

Ray's cell rang and as Tony watched the older man take the call, he felt much more relaxed about the assignment, knowing with an unexplainable certainty that the FBI agent would have his back. Flipping his cell closed, Ray snatched the check from Tony's hand and stood up.

"Come on, Gus," he said. "Time to go to work!"

"Torres?" Tony asked.

"Yep, looks like you'll get the chance to show off those new weapons skills. You ready?" Ray asked.

"I'm ready," Tony confirmed with a slightly forced grin.

"Good, 'cause he's going to throw every weapon he has at you and when you're done - he's gonna see how you handle C-4."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

As Ducky had foretold, within three hours of the explosion in the lab, Abby's hearing had returned to normal and, after running full diagnostics on all of her babies, she was relieved and thrilled to learn that they, too, had escaped their ordeal unscathed. The same couldn't be said for her portable CD player that lay in scattered pieces on the workbench. With the exception of some shattered glass petitions and some smoke and water damage, the lab was still functional.

Gibbs, Ziva, McGee and Morrison gathered in Abby's lab with Ducky and Palmer to discuss what had caused the explosion.

"I was re-running the tests the FBI had done on the C-4 and I _totally_ agree with their findings," Abby said. "Although the components used in the C-4 are not strictly the same as in the US, they are quite similar. It was still quite stable and able to withstand flame, heat and shock."

"So why did it blow up?" McGee asked.

"It didn't!" Abby smiled. "That is, it did but it didn't."

"Abs?" Gibbs asked in his "get to the point" tone.

"It was the blasting caps, Gibbs!" Abby explained. "See, blasting caps usually contain an easy-to-ignite explosive that provides the initial energy to start a detonation in a more stable explosive like C-4. In the US we frequently use Diazodinitrophenol or DDNP as it's more commonly known, because it is quite resistent to shock and friction. However, these blasting caps were filled with a highly unstable mix of Mercury(II) fulminate which is, like, totally susceptible to heat, shock and friction."

"The FBI found fragments of a blasting cap and C-4 in the pants pocket of the dead gang-banger," Ziva said. "Abby, would simply falling down provide enough impact for blasting caps to explode?"

"Normally, no way but with these bad boys – absolutely!" Abby nodded, her pigtails swinging wildly.

"What do you think, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

"I would say that is a highly probable, although, most unfortunate cause of death."

"Ever seen a fortunate cause of death, Duck?"

"Ah, you've raised a good point there, my friend." Ducky chuckled. "Of course, there was the time when I was travelling through the rainforests of..."

"Duck," Gibbs interrupted.

"Oh, yes...of course," Ducky said, a little disappointed at not being able to share another fascinating story.

Gibbs turned to Morrison. "You knew about the blasting caps?"

"I wasn't sure," he replied. "My uncle has a large property and he often used explosives to clear his land. When I was a kid, I remember there was an accident with the blasting caps exploding unexpectedly. My uncle's neighbour lost his hand. I was on my way down to talk to Abby about it when I heard the explosion."

"That would have been before the US tightened it's safety standards and regulations," Abby said. "The chances of that happening in the US now is, like, a hundred thousand to one."

"So, what caused the blasting caps to explode in the lab?" McGee asked.

Abby chewed her lower lip nervously.

"Abs?" Gibbs asked, waiting for an answer.

Abby expelled a deep breath before answering. "I was kinda hoping that you wouldn't ask me that. Okay…now don't get mad, Gibbs," she began reluctantly. "I was really, really worried about Tony and I needed something to help me concentrate on my work."

"Go on."

"I have the latest CD by the Hammer-Headed Zombie Cats, and it's, like, _totally_ mad, and I was playing it really, really loudly."

"That would make me explode," McGee said dryly, earning a glare from the Goth scientist.

"Then what happened?" Gibbs prompted.

"While I was writing up my test results, the vibration of the music caused one or more of the blasting caps to roll from the shelf and fall to the workbench. The impact ignited the C-4 sample I'd been working on and…kaflooey!"

"Now _that's_ what I call a boom box," Palmer quipped, laughing at his own joke until he realised he was laughing alone. "I'm sorry…that was very inappropriate."

"Allow me," Ducky said to Gibbs as he reached up to slap Jimmy across the back of the head. "I am sorry, Jethro, it seems young Anthony's comedic influence stretches much further than the bullpen."

"I'm really, really_, really_ sorry, Gibbs." Abby said.

"We need to warn DiNozzo that the fault's not in the C-4, it's the blasting caps."

"Can we call him, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Not without putting his cover at risk."

"We could send him an SMS from your burn phone, just saying 'call me.'"

Gibbs considered this for a moment before nodding and handing McGee his cell.

"Do it," he told him.

"Tony is due to check-in tonight anyway," Ziva said. "I am sure he will be fine, until then."

Gibbs hoped like hell that Ziva was right.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Ray had to hand it to him - watching Tony DiNozzo, NCIS Special Agent, ex-detective and all around good guy, transform smoothly into the sleaze-bag, gun-running, ex-con, Gus Bricker, was something to behold.

They had met Torres at the designated meeting place – a remote out of town property where they could fire even the largest of weapons without fear of discovery. Ray had spent the last three hours observing as Torres put Tony through his paces - checking his knowledge on trajectory, range, preferred ammunition, assembly and disassembly of everything from a revolver to an RPG. Tony sailed through every test and proved to be an excellent marksman. Torres was an expert marksman with a handgun, yet even he couldn't help but be impressed.

They climbed back into their vehicle and followed Torres to a warehouse in Fairfax where the three men sat around the table in the break room over a cup of coffee. Tony was in full Bricker sleaze-bag mode.

"So, anyway…the guy's built like Mike Tyson and I'm starting to get a bit worried. But I tell him, it's not _my_ fault he can't keep _his_ wife outta _my_ bed. Right? Well, the guy comes at me with a piece of timber and wants to use my head for batting practice; I swear the timber was this long!" Tony said, extending his arms and knocking a mug of coffee from the table and into Torres' lap. "Oh, shit, man, I'm sorry…"

Torres cursed loudly, the hot coffee burning as it soaked through his shirt and pants. Tony stood quickly, reaching for a nearby dishcloth and handed it to Torres who dabbed it uselessly against the soiled garments. The ex-detective chanced a fleeting look at Ray who reacted immediately.

"You should probably put some cold water on that burn, make sure it doesn't blister," Ray said. "Here, give me your jacket."

Torres shrugged out of his jacket and Ray hung it over the back of a chair. He led him to the sink, making sure his back was to the NCIS agent as Tony slipped the cell from Torres' jacket and attached the User Data Transfer Device. The copy and transfer of data took just under a minute and he slipped the cell back into the jacket as Torres turned around. Resuming his seat Torres glared at Tony with an unreadable expression as Ray held his breath, hoping they hadn't been discovered.

"When can you start?" Torres asked.

"How 'bout tomorrow?" Tony replied, hoping to get the user data from Torres' cell to Gibbs as soon as possible.

"How about now?" Torres said gruffly. "Unless you have somewhere more important to be."

"Nope," Tony said casually. "I can start now, what do you need me to do?"

"We have a load of C-4. The blocks need to be relabeled and packaged with the blasting caps," Torres said. "Ray will show you what to do."

"No problem," Tony said, following Ray through the door into the large warehouse storage area.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Gunny, that you?" Former Lt Colonel Bushnell's voice boomed down the telephone line.

"It's me, Skipper," Gibbs replied. "Those two grandkids of yours, keeping you on your toes?"

"Two? Try four, damned kids are breeding like rabbits," he replied with a loud chuckle. "This a social call, Gunny or did you forget I resigned my commission a few years back?"

"Could never forget that, Skipper," Gibbs said. "Hoped you still had a few connections at SouthCom."

"What do ya need?"

"We've got a large weapons smuggling operation here in DC, stealing weapons made for Marine and Navy personnel and replacing them with poor quality look-a-likes. Three Marines were killed using the substitutes," Gibbs explained. "We believe the weapons are coming from Central America, maybe El Salvador. Thought SouthCom might know if the CIA were sniffing around or mounting any operations in that area."

"Let me guess, the CIA isn't sharing or playing with others?"

"Same old, same old."

"Let me make a few calls and get back to ya," Bushnell said. "Might take a day or so."

"Appreciate your help, Sir."

"Old times, Gunny?"

"Old times, Skipper."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Four hours passed with Tony and Ray assisting and supervising six men to remove the foreign manufacturer's labels from the blocks of C-4 and replace them with labels and packaging from COL that had been provided previously by Joe Castillo.

Each block was packaged with two blasting caps and a length of bridgewire that, when connected to a remote trigger, sent an electrical charge to explode the blasting caps and, subsequently, the C-4. A dozen blocks were packaged together in a box, then sealed and stacked ready for transportation.

Torres' crew were a strange mix – as Ray had described, all appeared to be Salvadoran and Tony guessed they ranged in age from early-thirties to mid-fifties. Abby would describe each one as "seriously inked," as, with the exception of their faces, tattoos covered every visable inch of skin. They were fit, muscular and all wore that "mess-with-me-and-you-die" expression. Tony silently agreed with Ray's earlier assumption - these guys weren't mercenaries but they were certainly dangerous.

Covertly, Tony had snapped a photo of each of them with the camera in his cell and had also attempted to eavesdrop on their conversations. As they did not know he was fluent in their language, they were less guarded around him. Unfortunately, they had not said anything useful to the case. Quite suddenly, the men downed tools and walked from the warehouse.

"Stop work meeting?" Tony asked Ray as he pulled up a chair next to him and dropped heavily into it.

"Nope, coffee break," Ray replied.

"Ahh…good to see the Department of Labour protects the employee rights of our criminals," Tony said. "Our tax dollars, hard at work!"

Sitting forward, Tony leant his elbows on his knees and rested his throbbing head in his hands. The Tylenol he'd dry-swallowed an hour ago weren't doing any good - if anything, his headache was worse and he dug his knuckles into his temples to counteract the pounding.

"You look like you could use a break, too," Ray said.

"I'm good," Tony lied.

Ray raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Okay…okay I'll take a break, Mom. You coming?"

"I'll meet you in the break room, I want to re-stack that last pile of boxes."

"I'll give you a hand," Tony offered.

"You go ahead, I'll be right there," Ray replied. "Besides one of those goons might say something we can use."

"So far, all they've done is call me a "Niño bonito" and take bets on whether their sisters could beat me up!" Tony grumbled.

"That's absurd!" Ray said.

"I know! I'm a grown man, trained to defend myself!"

"No, I meant the pretty boy part – there's no accounting for taste," Ray joked. "Go get a coffee, I'll join you in a minute."

Tony grinned and headed to the break room at the far end of the large warehouse.

Two of the men were seated at the table drinking coffee. Their conversation stopped abruptly as Tony entered the room. He felt their eyes burning into his back as he casually walked past them and made himself a coffee. He looked out of the window into the parking lot and saw Torres had joined the other four men for a cigarette break.

As Tony seated himself at the opposite end of the table, the two men spoke sotto voce then laughed loudly at a joke that was obviously at his expense. Tensing his jaw, he flicked an imaginary switch in his brain and faced the men as Gus Bricker, with flint eyes and a hardened expression.

"Something funny?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.

"No, man, just a joke between amigos," the smaller of the two replied.

Tony stared at the two men, daring them with both his body language and his hard unblinking gaze and feeling strangely victorious when they dropped their eyes. He stood for an uncomfortably long moment before taking his coffee to the far end of the table. He removed his cell from his pocket and switched it on, pretending to check his messages while listening intently to the inane discussion at the other end of the table.

In reality, he hadn't been expecting to receive any messages, so when his cell beeped loudly, he started with surprise. He checked his inbox and read the words "_call me_." He stared at the message for a moment, knowing that Gibbs would only risk contacting him in an extreme emergency. He needed to get out of there so he could call Gibbs but he would need Ray's help to do it.

He climbed to his feet and poured his coffee down the sink and with his cell still in his hand he rounded the corner into the storage area. He caught a glimpse of Ray at the far end of the warehouse, straightening a stack of boxes. He caught his breath and began to shout a warning as one box tipped precariously and fell to the floor.

The world around him erupted in a cataclysmic explosion. Energy and heat engulfed him in a sudden tidal wave of agony and an unyielding force crushed the air from his lungs. In an instant, the force of the explosion threw him effortlessly through the air into the steel reinforced wall; his head impacted sickeningly as oblivion mercifully took him.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs was far from pleased as he descended the stairs from the director's office. SecNav was feeling the heat from the Pentagon and Capitol Hill to have this case wrapped up as soon as possible…and when SecNav felt the heat, it was handed right on down the chain of command and landed squarely on his broad shoulders.

Despite Tony's feelings on the matter, Gibbs had placed a call to CIA Operative Trent Kort several hours ago but was forced to leave a message – he was still waiting for a return call. Kort had no love for Tony but he owed Gibbs big time – if it meant getting his agent back safely, Gibbs was prepared to call in that marker and any others he'd racked up over the years.

As he cast a glance over the bullpen, the sight of his FBI counterpart seated at his desk did not improve his mood.

"McGee! What do ya got?" he asked, impaling Fornell with a withering glare as he passed.

"I phoned ICE Agent Julia Foster-Yates, Boss, got her voicemail - had to leave a message," McGee replied.

Gibbs frustration levels kicked up a notch. "First Kort now Foster-Yates! Did someone call a damn federal agents holiday?"

"If they did, they didn't tell me about it," Fornell replied as he casually sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, totally unaffected by Gibbs' steely glower. "I'd much rather be fly-fishing."

"You don't fish!"

"Maybe if I had more days off - I'd learn!" Fornell replied indignantly.

"Wanna tell me why your ass is in my chair, Tobias?" Gibbs asked.

"Cause it's more comfortable than having this discussion in the damned elevator," Fornell replied dryly.

"You need something?"

"You're the one who muscled in on our case, Gibbs," Fornell said, as he nudged an extra coffee in Gibbs' direction. "This is supposed to be a shared investigation, let's share!"

"First my wife, now the case, Tobias?" Gibbs needled.

"Yeah… well… let's hope the case has a better outcome than the wife - for _both _of us!"

"You heard from Sanchez?" Gibbs asked.

"No, we sent an SMS, as soon as you informed us of the faulty blasting caps," Fornell assured. "DiNozzo?"

"He'll call when he can."

"So, you're bringing the ICE princess in on this?" Fornell asked.

"The weapons are getting into the country somehow, Tobias. Thought she might be able to provide some intel on any increased shipping activity. You guys had any luck with air shipments?"

"Nothing yet, but there's a hell of a lot of airports and data to sort through." Fornell glanced at his ringing cell, his eyebrows drawn in a frown. "I better take this."

He flipped his cell open and walked to the other side of the room to take the call.

"McGee, when Agent Yates-Foster calls…"

"That's Agent Foster-Yates, Boss," McGee corrected.

"Whatever! If she has any intel for us, you go and get it from her personally," Gibbs said.

"Boss?"

"If someone from Customs is turning a blind-eye to whoever's smuggling these weapons, I don't want them to know we're on to them. No emails, no fax – she has something, you go get it."

"Thank you, Boss…er…I mean…on it, Boss," McGee answered - a little too enthusiastically if Ziva's uncharacteristic guffaw was anything to go by.

"Take Morrison with you," Gibbs instructed, instantly deflating McGee's enthusiasm.

"Morrison?" he began to protest when Gibbs shutdown his argument with a look.

"Taking Morrison, right, Boss."

Fornell approached Gibbs, a look of deep consternation on his face. "I just got a call from our agent monitoring Sanchez' locator beacon, it stopped transmitting five minutes ago. Could be a faulty beacon, could be more. I have a couple of agents nearby, I've sent them to the warehouse for a casual drive-by to see if Ray's car is still there."

Gibbs dialled Abby's number on his desk phone.

"Abs, when's the last time you checked the signal from Tony's locator beacon?"

"About four minutes ago," she answered. "I have it on auto refresh and it gives me an update, like, every five minutes."

"Check it again," he instructed.

"Is something wrong, Gibbs?" Abby asked, the worry evident in her voice.

"Abs!"

"Okay, I'm checking now," she said as her fingers flashed over her keyboard. "Gibbs, I'm still receiving a signal."

"Can you get a fix on it, Abs?"

"It's still at the warehouse in Fairfax, Gibbs, his beacon has been signalling from the same location for the last five hours."

Gibbs' relief was short-lived when Fornell's cell rang again and the seasoned FBI agent blanched at the news. He snapped the cell closed unable to conceal his concern.

"My agents are at the scene of the warehouse," he said gravely. Gibbs was already reaching for his weapons and ID before Fornell could finish his report. "There's been a major explosion. The warehouse is fully alight and emergency services are on their way."

"Gear up!" Gibbs urged his team and looked back to Fornell. "Sanchez and DiNozzo?"

"No sign of them, but Sanchez' car is the only vehicle in the parking lot." Fornell followed the team as they hurried to the elevator.

"I know what you're thinking, Jethro, but there's no proof Sanchez and DiNozzo are still in there," Fornell said, trying to allay his own concerns.

"There's no proof they're not," Gibbs stated. "Let's go!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

With Gibbs behind the wheel of one sedan and Ziva the other, they looked more like a tandem stunt-driving team than law enforcement vehicles as they negotiated the late afternoon traffic with speed and precision. They arrived at the Fairfax warehouse, ten minutes sooner than McGee had thought possible.

The synchronised fishtail manoeuvre that saw both cars screech to a halt within a yard of the safety barrier was worthy of applause. Had the situation not been so dire and if McGee had been able to prise his fingers free of the dashboard, he'd have certainly provided an enthusiastic ovation.

They flashed their badges to the uniformed officers who were ensuring the handful of spectators stayed safely behind the barriers. The factory was completely ablaze as Gibbs led Fornell and his team to the command centre set up by the fire company. A burly, white-haired fire chief had no intention of allowing them access to the building and quickly halted their progress.

"You can't be in here," the chief ordered gruffly, seemingly oblivious to the multiple badges being flashed at him. "The situation is completely unstable – I have a Hazmat team in there, let them do their jobs."

"We have reason to believe that the explosions may be caused by a stockpile of C-4," Fornell said, watching as the chief passed that information on to his teams.

"I need some breathing gear," Gibbs stated urgently. "We have two agents unaccounted for, they may be in there."

"Not gonna happen," the chief said, placing himself between Gibbs and the spare breathing apparatus. "The roof is about to come down and the last thing we need is a bunch of feds running around in there. Once the situation is stable and the fire is contained, we can let you in. My crew are the best, if there's anyone left to find in there, they'll find 'em."

The tension between the two men was palpable as they stood chest to chest and, for a fleeting moment, McGee thought Abby's theories on spontaneous human combustion were about to be tested. Fornell stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on Gibbs' shoulder.

"Jethro," Fornell said, softly. "Let them do their jobs."

The ground shook and nearby windows shattered as the warehouse erupted in another fiery explosion. As the agents crouched low to avoid any flying debris, the chief immediately called for all fire fighters to pull back and report in.

Gibbs pulled his ringing cell from his pocket, placing his free hand over his other ear to hear over the noise.

"Abby? I can hardly hear you. Say again!"

"Gibbs," Abby said, her voice trembling. "I've lost him, I've lost Tony's signal!"

Snapping his cell closed, he shouldered passed the fire chief and reached for the breathing apparatus.

"What the hell are you doing?" the fire chief yelled.

"I have to get in there!" Gibbs yelled forcefully.

"Boss!" McGee yelled as he Morrison and Fornell struggled to restrain him. "Boss, it's too late."

Gibbs broke free of their holds and stood looking despairingly at the inferno in front of him. He ran shaking fingers through his hair in frustration and then walked a short distance from his team to hide the naked emotion on his face and attempt to regain his composure.

'_Where the hell are you, DiNozzo?_' he thought as his gut churned sickeningly.

The wait was unbearable and it was another 30 minutes before the chief's hand held radio transmitter crackled to life.

"Command this is Station 411, we have located a body."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**A/N You know, if I don't throw in the occasional cliff-hanger I'll be thrown out of the cliff-hangers club. :) Just one sleep until the next chapter! Hope you enjoyed that one! L**

**Many thanks to Kylen for the confirming the lyrics of the fight songs.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 14**

As late afternoon turned to night, the Fairfax County Fire Department called in four heavy rescue trucks from the DC area to provide flood lighting and to assist in securing the remains of the warehouse. Despite the heavy-duty equipment, it was estimated that it would take at least another three hours before the situation was contained and the fire-ravaged structure was declared stable. Only then would the agents be granted access to process the scene, recover the body and search through the rubble for any others.

Waiting to be allowed access to the building was intolerable. Gibbs was a man of action and all this inaction tore at the lead agent's nerves. As his team attempted to quash all feelings of distress and anxiety about their missing teammate, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his car keys. Leaving McGee in charge he headed back to the Navy Yard to report to the director; request additional teams to process the huge crime scene and, most of all, to provide a shoulder for Abby.

Feeling similarly impatient and unproductive, Fornell muttered, "I'll be back in an hour," and hitched a ride to the Hoover Building with the other FBI agents.

McGee instructed Ziva and Morrison to speak with any witnesses and commence a door to door of nearby offices and warehouses. As the warehouse was located in a semi-remote, commercial area, they knew that most people would have left for the day but were grateful for the opportunity to concentrate on something other than Tony's fate.

McGee drove the other agency sedan to the safe house where Tony had been staying - Bricker's Silverado was still parked out front and for a moment his heart leapt at the possibility that Tony was here, safe and unharmed.

He cautiously approached the house and, hearing no sounds from within, drew his SIG and used his lock picks to open the front door. As he entered the front room he couldn't help but be disappointed not to find his senior field agent, reposing on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and his Cheshire Cat grin lighting up the room.

He grimaced as several of Tony's disgusting little "housemates" crawled quickly across the floor and out of sight. McGee went room to room to ensure the house was empty. Tony's clothes were still in his duffle, his bathroom kit was on the vanity and McGee frowned at the empty blister pack of Tylenol 4 in the bathroom trash. Finding no other evidence that Tony had been at the house in the last few hours, he returned to the warehouse to re-join his team.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

With the director sufficiently briefed, additional teams and the ME's being mobilised and Abby putting on a thinly veiled, brave face, Gibbs climbed into the sedan and drove back to the warehouse. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone; he could have called Vance and given his report; he could have called in his request for additional teams and although it would not have been his preference, he could also have called Abby and done his best to console her by phone.

He was glad for the time alone in the car, for the privacy it allowed him and time to gather his thoughts. The tension that had been his constant companion since Tony commenced this undercover assignment had lodged itself like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head, refusing the dark thoughts any further licence and parked the car at the safety barrier. He took two deep breaths, ensured his game face was firmly in place then he exited the car and walked purposefully toward his team.

Ducky and Palmer arrived shortly thereafter, bearing hot tea and coffee and joining the team in a staid and sombre vigil as they waited for access. It was an extremely apprehensive team that approached the warehouse when the Fire Department gave the all clear.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Carlos Torres paced impatiently in the small dimly lit bedroom - his call to Matteo Lopez had not gone well. Lopez was furious at the loss of their C-4 supply and at the attention the explosion and subsequent fire would, no doubt, attract from various law enforcement agencies. However, it was the death of another weapons specialist and potentially serious injury to the other, that had Lopez ready to blow a gasket. Lopez was a powerful man and with the operation coming to a close, Torres knew that he was fast becoming dispensable in his boss' eyes.

He looked across the room at the man who lay unconscious in the narrow cot, growing increasingly impatient for him to wake. This should never have happened. Their previous weapons specialist, Tomas Estefan, had warned that the imported blasting caps were highly unstable. Lopez hadn't listened – driven by his obsession he had ordered them to proceed anyway. Despite that, Torres was sure that Lopez would blame _him_ for this mess. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly as he remembered those last few moments at the Fairfax warehouse: -

_Deafening explosions came one after the other in quick succession as the heat and impact of each blast caused a chain reaction effect on the other boxes. Torres entered the building and knew immediately that the shipment was lost. Dark, toxic smoke was billowing from within the warehouse and emergency services would soon be on their way. They heard the faint shouts coming from the break room and, staying low, they covered their mouths and noses, located the missing men and helped guide them to the exit. _

_Doing a quick head count, Torres cursed vehemently, realising that their two weapons specialists were most likely dead. He shuddered involuntarily, thinking how Matteo Lopez' would react to the news. With the thick smoke making it almost impossible to see he turned for the exit when his foot impacted with something lying on the ground._ _Realising he had found a body, he placed his hands against the man's chest, relieved to feel a heartbeat. With smoke stinging his eyes he grabbed the man under the arms and dragged him to the exit._

_Upon reaching the door, he found his men had brought the truck and Torres' car from the parking lot. They assisted him to lift the unconscious man clear of the building and did a quick check of his respirations and his pulse rate - both were rapid but strong. Blood flowed freely from a deep gash on the left side of his head and although his clothes and hair were slightly singed and covered in soot he did not appear to be burned. _

_Torres strode towards his car, coughing harshly from the rancid smoke. He popped the trunk and removed a first aid bag, tossing it to a thin, angular man kneeling by the injured man's side._

"_Vargas, take him to your house. I'll meet you there," he ordered. _

"_Carlos, he needs a hospital, man," Vargas protested._

_Torres suppressed his growing panic, as the sound of the approaching sirens grew louder. _

"_Get him out of here now and make sure he stays alive!" Torres barked as one man got behind the wheel of the truck and the others lifted the unconscious man into the back and climbed in._

Despite their attempts to rouse him, the injured man hadn't so much as twitched since they'd brought him here and Torres knew he could be seriously injured. There was no time to find another weapons specialist - if he was going to re-establish himself in Lopez' eyes, he needed this man to survive and, for the next few days at least, their lives were co-dependant.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The firemen had located the body at the northern most end of the large storage area. Following the directions given by the fire fighters, Gibbs led his team and Fornell through the smouldering remains of the warehouse toward the body. As they drew nearer, the acrid smell of burnt hair and flesh washed over them.

Morrison paled, revulsion filling his throat and threatening to spill out. Noticing the younger agent's distress, McGee went to his aid.

"Morrison?" McGee said.

"I'm sorry, …I just…I never thought it would...the smell is…"

McGee reached into his pocket and withdrew a small container of Vicks.

"Place some of this under your nose and try to breathe through your mouth."

"That helps?" Morrison asked hopefully.

"Not much," McGee confessed. "You wanna sit this one out?"

Morrison wanted to say yes but then glanced ahead to Gibbs who had already reached the body and was speaking with Ducky and Fornell. Morrison's expression faltered.

"I really shouldn't," he replied.

"There are two more teams on the way," McGee said. "Meet them at the gate and tell them to start searching from the southern end of the warehouse, stay with them, we'll call if we need you. Oh, and Fornell has a team from the FBI coming to process Sanchez' car and to transport it back to the Hoover Building."

Morrison chanced another worried glance at the lead agent.

"Go! Don't make me order you, Probie," McGee said, watching as relief swept over the younger man and he jogged out of the ruins.

Having overheard the conversation, Ziva moved to the acting senior field agent's side.

"McGee, Morrison needs to get used to such things if he is to be a crime scene investigator," she said.

"Does anyone _ever_ get used to this, Ziva?" McGee asked. "He just needs to find his own way."

"Then why let him go?"

"Because when the Boss was hurt on that Turkish freighter and I couldn't face going into that laundry room - _my_ senior field agent cut _me_ some slack," McGee answered solemnly.

The mention of their partner brought the gravity of the situation, crushing down upon them. Their eyes reflected the same fears as they desperately tried to curb the storm of emotion coursing through them.

"Come, McGee," Ziva said, placing her hand on his arm. "We have work to do."

Resolutely, they took their places by Gibbs' side as the lead agent, Fornell, Ducky and Palmer stood over the pungent remains of the body. There was a malicious familiarity about staring at a body burnt beyond recognition and scouring every nauseating, shockingly disfigured inch for anything to prove that it was not your partner.

"Boss?" McGee asked hesitantly. "Is…is it Tony?"

"It's impossible to tell at this time, Timothy," Ducky said ruefully, crouching to take a better look. "By the look of the devastating injuries, he would have been standing very close to the explosion and was very likely killed instantly by the blast concussion. I'm afraid identification will have to wait until we can get him back to autopsy and check his dental records."

Gibbs spoke softly after a long moment of silence, the rare, hollow timbre made his voice sound raspy and hoarse.

"McGee, shoot and sketch. Ziva, bag and tag. Morrison…where's Morrison?"

"I…er…sent him to wait for the back-up teams, Boss and to help them start searching the far end of the warehouse."

Gibbs nodded and his team and the ME's set about their assigned tasks. He clenched his fists and forced himself to relax them again as he looked thoughtfully at the body. Tony had narrowly escaped death numerous times. He had been unceremoniously shoved from an aeroplane, he'd hung by his fingertips from a multi-story parking lot, been knocked out, shot, shot at, beaten and stricken with the pneumonic plague... did fate now demand to be satisfied? Was Tony spared from death previously, only to have him cruelly snatched away from them now?

He pushed the memories and the dark thoughts aside, unwilling to deal with them, and allowed himself one final demand before assisting the team with the crime scene.

"Don't do this, DiNozzo," he muttered. "Don't do it."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Ducky and Palmer had placed the body in the coroner's van and began their journey back to the Navy Yard. Fornell and Gibbs were following close behind when Gibbs' cell rang.

"Agent Gibbs, it's Morrison. I've found a cell in the rubble up here, Sir, it's pretty trashed but Abby still may be able to extract some data from it."

"Bag it and bring it in," Gibbs said.

"There's something else," Morrison continued. "There's more blood. On a wall and on the floor."

"How much blood?"

"Doesn't look like enough to be life-threatening. We're still looking but there doesn't appear to be another body," Morrison said. "I've taken photos and collected samples for analysis," he replied.

"Leave the other teams to finish up – tell them to call me if they find anything. Catch a ride back to the office with McGee and get those samples to Abby ASAP," Gibbs instructed, snapping his cell closed.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00 **

The front door of Vargas' house swung open with a ferocity that nearly forced it from its hinges and a tall, dark-haired man wearing an Armani suit and hand-made Italian shoes stepped menacingly inside. Torres was immediately on his feet.

"Senor Lopez," he said, startled by the man's presence. "We weren't expecting you!"

"I wasn't expecting to be here," Lopez snarled. "But it seems my lead man can no longer be trusted to run this operation without everything going to hell!"

Torres dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Where is Bricker?" Lopez snarled.

Torres gestured to the door of an adjoining bedroom.

"Vargas is with him. He hasn't regained consciousness yet."

Opening the door they entered the small room and saw the man lying motionless on the narrow cot. Lopez stood over him, noting the greyish pallor, the deep head gash and the blood that had clotted in his hair and stained the pillow beneath his head. Gripping the man's chin, Lopez turned his head to get a better look at the wound.

"How long has he been out?" he asked.

"Since the explosion, about four hours," Torres replied.

"And the other one?"

"We couldn't reach him."

"So, you're telling me that with our deadline approaching we not only lost our entire C-4 supply but we lost another weapons specialist," Lopez remarked looking back at the unconscious man. "Maybe two!"

"Yes, Sir. Estefan warned us, when this operation began, that the blasting caps were dangerous," Torres defended.

"Looks like he was right," Lopez said coldly, looking back at the unconscious man. "Get him a doctor – I don't care how you do it, but get him back on his feet fast!"

"A doctor but…"

"We need more weapons! We're days out from our deadline and we need him to oversee the assembly operation," Lopez snarled. "Get him on his feet and contact Castillo to set up another weapons swap from COL. Don't fail me again, Carlos, we've come too far to stop now."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The sorrowful atmosphere of the autopsy room was almost unbearable as Ducky and Palmer made final preparations for the autopsy of the body retrieved from the warehouse fire.

Although Ducky insisted that every courtesy and respect be afforded to all of the 'guests' that visited his morgue, tonight the usual genial banter he and his assistant participated in was noticeably absent.

They had sent the blood samples for analysis and prepared the body and the equipment. Ducky was about to request the first instrument from his assistant when Jimmy mumbled an apology and hurried toward the adjoining restroom.

He took a deep wavering breath and closed his eyes, before washing his face vigorously with cold water and reaching to the shelf, blindly searching for his glasses.

"Looking for these?" Ducky asked kindly, handing Jimmy his glasses and a paper towel.

Jimmy dried his face and looked at his mentor with a mixture of shame and regret.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't know what came over me – that's never happened before," he explained.

"Nonsense, my boy. What we do here everyday is difficult in any circumstance but today it is exceedingly so," Ducky said with a gentleness that was almost Jimmy's undoing.

In his time at NCIS, working and studying under Doctor Mallard, the smell of blood and the gruesome and often bizarre causes of death had brought hundreds of bodies to their autopsy table - that was something Jimmy had learnt to accept. However, after the notorious car bombing incident when they thought Tony had been killed at the wheel of his beloved Mustang, the sight and smell of a friend's blood; a friend's burnt flesh and hair; a friend burnt beyond recognition; was something the assistant ME had hoped to never experience again.

He blinked to clear his vision and turned his face from Ducky, ashamed of his emotion.

"Deep breaths, Mr Palmer," Ducky instructed kindly.

A long moment passed before Jimmy found his voice. "Doctor Mallard, you've known Tony longer than I have - how many of his nine lives has he used?"

Ducky pursed his lips in thought. "At last count, my boy…seventeen."

Jimmy couldn't help the small sound that escaped from his throat, a hybrid of a laugh and a sob.

"Damn you, DiNozzo," he said without malice. "This is _so_ getting old!"

"Anthony's been a good friend to you, Jimmy, to all of us," Ducky said. "But let's not plan his memorial until we're certain he's left us, hmmm?"

Jimmy looked at his mentor noticing the lines that bored deeply into the corners of his kind, blue eyes and around his mouth. He knew that, despite that "stiff upper lip" British façade, the elderly man was hurting as much as anyone. His regard for his Ducky was immeasurable. The older man had always been an outstanding teacher but - at that moment - he didn't need a mentor, he needed a friend and Ducky's composure and understanding gave him the strength to steel his resolve and go back to work.

Resolutely, they returned to the autopsy room, determined to draw strength from each other. The shrill of the fax machine sounded as they neared the body.

Jimmy walked, apprehensively, across the room to retrieve the printout. As he read the results, his mouth was suddenly dry and his heart pounded so fast that he could hardly take a full breath.

"Blood results?" Ducky asked.

"Dental records," Jimmy replied, reading the results again to be certain.

"Mr Palmer, please don't leave me imagining the worst!" Ducky scolded.

The huge smile that appeared on his assistant's young face was an answer to Ducky's most fervent prayer.

"It's not Tony," Jimmy said, his knees almost buckling in relief. "Dental records don't match Tony's."

"I do believe that young man has just used life number eighteen," Ducky said triumphantly. "Hold the fort, Mr Palmer, I intend to deliver this news, personally!"

"Wait, Doctor!" Jimmy called, the grin disappearing from his face as he continued. "There's more news."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Still dressed in his scrubs, Ducky stepped from the elevator and made his way to the bullpen. As he expected, the entire team plus Abby and Fornell, were present, refusing to leave until their fears had been confirmed or allayed.

"Duck?" Gibbs said, immediately getting to his feet. "You got something?"

"Yes, Jethro, I do," Ducky replied, his expression so serious that Abby gasped as her breath caught. "We have a dental records match – the body downstairs, is _not_ Anthony!"

Their reaction to the news was as varied as their personalities as Gibbs ran imperceptibly trembling fingers through his short silver hair, Ziva allowed a relaxed smile at Morrison and McGee and Abby hugged each other tightly, each feeling overwhelming relief.

"Ducky, you said you had a match for the dental records?" Ziva asked.

"Yes, we do," Ducky said gravely and turned to face Fornell. "I am terribly sorry, Agent Fornell, the dental records match those of FBI Agent, Ramon Sanchez."

Gibbs found himself warring with feelings of relief and misplaced guilt as he watched his old friend's shoulders slump wearily. He had lost men before, in battle and in the field, and he knew it was something that never got easier.

"I'm sorry, Tobias," he offered.

"I need to contact his family," Fornell said, his face implacable to all but those who knew him well. "You'll keep me apprised, send me a copy of the autopsy?"

Gibbs nodded, watching as Fornell entered the lift. "Something else, Duck?"

"Yes, Jethro, I'm afraid there is. The blood sample that Agent Morrison collected from the warehouse is type A positive."

"Same as Tony's," Gibbs stated. "Abby, how long until the DNA results come through?"

Abby checked her watch. "They should be back now," she said. "I found hair follicles mixed with the blood sample on the wall, so we have two sources to check."

"Can you check the results from here?" Gibbs asked

"You betcha, with the new whiz-bang technology, we can check them from anywhere, well…almost anywhere…you'd still need to circumnavigate the firewalls and the super-duper encryption spy-ware and…"

"Abs?"

"Checking the results from here, Gibbs," Abby replied.

She used McGee's computer to access her own database and chewed anxiously on her lower lip as the results appeared on the monitor.

"Gibbs, according to the DNA results, the blood and the hair belong to…"

"Tony," Gibbs finished.

"He's still alive though, right?" McGee asked. "Otherwise, why would they take him with them?"

"McGee is right," Ziva said. "If Tony's cover had been blown, they would have killed him right there."

"Unless they think they can use a federal agent as leverage in case they get caught," Morrison added.

"I'm afraid there's another urgent consideration," Ducky ventured. "Judging by the photos of the blood pattern taken at the crime scene, it would appear that Anthony has suffered another head injury."

"What are we looking at, Duck?"

"Well, of course, it's impossible to know without examining him," Ducky said.

"Best guess," Gibbs replied.

"If the Tylenol 4 Timothy found in Anthony's bathroom is any indication, his headaches are still causing him considerable discomfort. At best, we could be looking at another serious concussion."

"And at worst?"

The grave look on the ME's face answered the question loud and clear.

"Wherever he is," Ducky said, "he needs urgent medical attention – we need to find him fast."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**Thanks for taking the time to read my story, L**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. In any scene where Tony is present, he will be referred to as Gus Bricker. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 15**

Doctor Charles Maxwell was a balding, portly man approaching retirement age. Carrying his large medical bag and a cup of very bad coffee, he exited the Annandale Medical Centre and rounded the building to the staff parking lot in back. Arriving at his car, he juggled the coffee and his car keys, cursing softly at the poor lighting.

"Sir! Sir! Are you a Doctor?"

The panicked voice from the dark startled him and he turned quickly to see a man approaching.

"What do you want?" the doctor said, immediately suspicious of his intent.

"I need your help, I think my friend, is having a heart attack!" the man pointed deeper into the parking lot where a man was seated on the ground with his back against the trunk of a car. "I tried to get him inside but he collapsed. Please Doctor, help him!"

Grabbing his medical bag, the doctor quickly followed the man to his friend and crouched down beside him to assess his condition. He gasped audibly as the barrel of a gun was pushed firmly into his ribs.

"What is the meaning of this?" he protested.

"We are in need of your services, Doctor," the first man said as he opened the trunk and relieved the doctor of his cell and wallet, then brandished the gun menacingly. "Get in!"

Doctor Maxwell fleetingly thought about yelling for help as he was forcefully manhandled into the trunk.

"This will go a lot easier for you if you do as we say," the second man said. "If you do not cause any trouble, you will be released unharmed. If you fight us, you will be killed."

They slammed the trunk closed, climbed into the car and began to drive. After a short journey, the vehicle was stopped and the trunk opened. The doctor squinted against the glare of the overhead lights as strong arms reached in to drag him from the car.

He was guided, stumbling, up some steps and through several doorways until, finally, he found himself standing beside a narrow cot bearing a bloodied and unconscious man.

"What's wrong with him?" the doctor asked.

"You're the doctor, Doctor," Torres replied. "You tell us."

The doctor reached for his medical bag and opened it on a small table next to the bed. He reached for his stethoscope, portable blood pressure gauge and a small penlight.

Wrinkling his nose distastefully, the doctor looked back at Torres.

"He reeks of smoke. I can't see any burns…was he in a fire?"

"An explosion" Torres explained. "He's been unconscious ever since."

"How long?" the doctor asked, securing the blood pressure cuff.

Torres checked his watch. "Almost six hours."

"Six hours and you're only getting help for him now!" the doctor censured, allowing the cuff to deflate once he'd taken the reading. "His blood pressure is very low, he could have a skull fracture or any number of serious injuries – he needs to be in a hospital."

"Can't do that, Doc, that's why you're here," Torres said. "We need you to wake him up and get him on his feet."

The doctor placed his thumb lightly on each of the man's eyelids and gently opened them. Using his penlight to check pupillary reaction - he frowned deeply.

"His pupils are sluggish and unequal. He's suffered a brain trauma. Only scans can determine how seriously he's been hurt. How long was he near the fire?" the doctor asked, reaching for his stethoscope and listening to the man's lungs.

"Not long, but there was a lot of smoke around," Torres replied.

"Airways are clear. Get that shirt off him while I hold his head steady," the doctor instructed.

Torres and Vargas removed the man's shirt, their eyes widening as they saw the severe, multicoloured bruising on the man's arms and upper torso.

"Good God," the doctor whispered. "Some of these bruises look to be several days old, do you know how they happened?"

"Maybe Mike Tyson caught up with you after all, eh, man?" Torres said to the unconscious man.

"What?" the doctor exclaimed.

"Jealous husband," Torres replied.

The doctor shook his head disapprovingly and listened to the man's lungs, partially turning him so he could place the stethoscope on his back.

"He has some congestion in his lungs, not too serious. I'm more concerned about the head injury."

"He gonna make it, Doc?"

"Are you going to take him to a hospital?" the doctor asked.

"No hospitals," Torres said ominously. "If you can't wake him up, Doc, you're no good to us."

The doctor paled noticeably. He realised that his abductors had not made any effort to cover their faces and he knew that they had no intention of releasing him. He decided immediately, to try to assist the injured man – the more time he spent cooperating, the more chance there was that someone would notice his abandoned car and the police would find him.

"I could give him an injection to raise his blood pressure, that should bring him around faster," Doctor Maxwell replied. "However, depending on the severity of his head injury, there may be nothing I can do for him."

"Do it! Give him the injection," Torres demanded. "And Doc, no funny stuff - if he dies, you die."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Ducky had returned to the morgue to perform the autopsy on FBI Agent Sanchez, Ziva placed a BOLO with all hospitals and medical centres in the tri-state area for anyone with a head injury who fitted Tony's description; Abby's tests were still running and McGee was still waiting for a return call from ICE Agent Julia Foster-Yates. At zero one hundred, it was apparent they had reached a lull in their investigation and Gibbs sent his team home to rest. He was not surprised when he looked up from his paperwork at zero five thirty and saw his team exiting the elevator.

Morrison entered holding a coffee in each hand. As the other agents walked to their desks, he placed a freshly brewed Jamaican blend in front of the lead agent as Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"Just thought this might save you some time…and me some dry cleaning," Morrison stated with a cheeky smile.

Gibbs nodded and suppressed a grin of his own as he recognised another hint of DiNozzo-like attitude in the young probational agent.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"I thought I'd go help Abby with the cell, Aaron found," McGee said. "If we can extract the data it may have something we can use."

"Abby's here, too?" Gibbs asked.

"She just arrived."

"Go!" he said. "Ziva?"

"No hits yet on the BOLO for medical centres and hospitals," she replied reading from her monitor. "There were several men at the Ravensworth warehouse that did not register on Abby's facial recognition program. As that is a national database and as we believe this operation has strong links to Central America, I am checking with my contacts at Interpol to see if they can match them."

"Morrison?"

"Ziva and I started a door to door of properties located near the warehouse," he said. "No-one we spoke to saw anything and we were going to go back later this morning."

"Were?"

"I had a thought while I was driving home last night and called the 911 operator. She told me that a Murray Blake phoned emergency services about the explosion. I checked the phone book and there's a Blake's Auto Repair shop located across the road from the warehouse."

"Get his address and go see him. See if he saw anything," Gibbs instructed.

"Now? It's not even zero six hundred!" Morrison pointed out.

"So take him a breakfast burrito but go wake him up!"

"On my way," Morrison said, taking his ID and sidearm from the desk drawer and jogging to the stairs.

Satisfied the investigation was on track, Gibbs snatched up his coffee and pushed up from his chair.

"I'll be with Ducky," he said, walking to the elevator.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Doctor Maxwell released the blood pressure cuff from the man's arm and nodded his head in satisfaction. The medication he had administered a few hours ago had increased his pressure to a more normal level and the man was already showing signs of regaining consciousness.

He'd cleaned and sutured the deep head gash but was extremely concerned that there had been no improvement in the man's pupillary reaction. It was highly likely that his injury was far beyond the capability of a simple general practitioner.

The doctor watched the eye movement below the closed lids, fleetingly wondering what the man was seeing. He knew that if the man had reached REM, consciousness would more than likely follow soon after.

_Shattered memory fragments replayed in his mind at great speed but with little cohesion. He was tired but he couldn't stop, he had to keep running, had to get away. Get away to where? Where was he going? He was dressed in an orange, prison jumpsuit, he'd attacked a federal marshal to get off the bus and now he was running for his life...for his freedom._

_The images changed suddenly and he was seated in an interrogation room across from a determined-looking, African-American federal agent. He was determined all right, determined to charge him with a crime he hadn't committed. Or had he? Alibi? Why did he need an alibi? What was happening, why was he here? Just because he didn't have an alibi, didn't mean he was guilty, did it? _

_A blinding flash of light left black spots dancing before his eyes and when his vision cleared, he found himself standing against a height chart, holding an identification board under his chin. This wasn't happening. He was no saint but he hadn't killed anyone and now he was being arrested for murder._

At first the noise was far away, not even an irritation but slowly, as he crept out of the warm, darkness, the urgency of the voices drew him forward into harsh reality. One minute he was drifting, the next he'd been hit with an intense, blinding, pain. Awareness may have come slowly, but the pain had not.

A voice he didn't recognise asked if he knew his name – over and over it asked, shooting tendrils of pain into his head. He smacked his lips, cleared his throat and slowly opened his eyes, increasing his pain levels a few notches. With eyelids at half-mast, he looked around the room and realised he had no idea where he was.

In the semi-darkness of the room he determined the shadowy outline of two men standing over him. His heart began to race, beating in time with the pulsating pain behind his eyes and in his temples.

"Can you tell me your name?" the older man asked.

He stared back at him for a long moment with glassy, uncomprehending eyes - conscious but not quite lucid.

"Your name," the older man repeated. "Can you tell me your name?"

" s'Bricker," he answered in a sibilant whisper. " s'Gus…Gus Bricker."

The doctor looked to Torres who nodded in confirmation.

"Good, good…can you tell me what day it is?"

"No," he whispered after a moment's thought.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"No!" he hissed, disoriented and confused.

A sudden wave of agony engulfed him, stealing his breath and causing him to gasp loudly. He crushed his eyes closed and pressed the heel of his hand against his left temple. From a great distance, he heard them calling his name but he was unwilling and unable to expend the energy to remain conscious and he let himself drift away again.

"What the hell happened? I told you to wake him up?" Torres snarled.

"And I told you, this man needs a hospital. He's obviously suffered some kind of brain injury - he needs a head CT, an MRI – I don't have the equipment to help him!" the doctor pleaded.

"Is he in immediate danger?"

"He has a serious head injury," the terrified doctor repeated through clenched teeth. "His pupils are unequal and are slow to react and that could mean…"

"_Is he in immediate danger?"_ Torres roared, drawing his weapon and placing it firmly against the doctor's chest.

"No…I…I have no way of knowing," the doctor stammered. "He is definitely in danger but...but I don't think it's immediate."

"Can you or can you not get him on his feet," he growled.

"I _think_ I can…but he'll need some very strong medication… and I can't guarantee how long he will _stay_ on his feet."

"Just get him up…and remember what I said – if he dies, so do you." Torres slammed the door of the small room on his way out and couldn't help but think of the irony of the situation and how his own life was also dependent on whether Gus Bricker lived or died.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"Ah, Jethro!" Ducky said in a tone that belied his weariness. "Once again you're timing is perfect. Any news on Anthony?"

"Not yet, Duck," Gibbs replied running callused fingers over tired eyes. "You got something on the Sanchez autopsy?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Agent Sanchez suffered catastrophic injuries and innumerable shrapnel wounds caused by the explosion itself but, mercifully, I believe the shock wave from the explosion would have killed him almost instantaneously," Ducky said. "I have a copy of the report for you. Would you like me to email a copy to Agent Fornell, also?"

Ducky turned to see the lead agent staring into space. "Jethro?"

"This one's on me, Duck," Gibbs said in a barely audible whisper. "I really screwed the pooch."

"Don't do this Jethro - Anthony's undercover experience and his advanced weapons training made him the ideal choice for this assignment," Ducky reasoned.

"I knew he wasn't ready. Jesus, he was still on medical leave!"

"Yes, well, I had wondered about the wisdom of that decision but I knew you would not have made it lightly." Ducky replied. "I'm certain our young man feels the same way."

"I should've waited until another agent was available."

"And if you had waited and more Marines had died, you'd have never forgiven yourself…nor would our dear Anthony."

Ducky recognised the anguish in his friend's eyes and heard the question Gibbs refused to put voice to.

"You'll find him, Jethro," Ducky assured him. "You'll bring him home."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs walked quietly into the lab to find McGee and Abby hunched over the remains of the cell phone found at the warehouse fire. Morrison had located it under a pile of rubble caused when the roof partially collapsed. Ironically, it was the rubble that ultimately spared the cell from complete destruction from the extreme heat of the fire.

"What do you got?" Gibbs said, causing Abby to gasp in surprise at his sudden appearance.

"Gibbs! You're early – my baby hasn't called yet!" she exclaimed. "That can mean only one thing - our planets must be out of alignment again – that's twice in one week, that's, like, practically impossible! Do you know the odds of that happening, Gibbs? It's, like, infinitesimal!"

Gibbs shrugged. "Maybe your dinger thing's broken again."

Abby's stood still, her green eyes blinking rapidly as her amazing brain processed Gibbs' much simpler explanation. She spun quickly around and hurried over to find that her computer had completed the national fingerprint database search and had found a match.

"You're right!" she said. "The darn dinger didn't ding again! What a relief, for a minute I thought the world was spinning off its axis."

"You gotta match?"

"I gotta match," she repeated, reading her monitor. "The prints are Tony's - this is _definitely_ Tony's cell."

"Can you retrieve the data?" Gibbs asked.

"We'll try, Boss," McGee said. "The heat of the fire has fused the casing but hopefully the internal circuitry hasn't been fried."

"I told you Timmy, don't start that 'fried' thing again!" Abby said punching McGee in the arm. "It wasn't funny the first thirty times you said it!"

"You've got an hour, McGee and then I need you to contact ICE Agent Julia Whats-her-name," Gibbs said.

"That's Julia Foster-Yates, Boss," McGee corrected again. "I went by her apartment and spoke with her roommate. She's flying in from LA on the red-eye this morning. Should be arriving at Dulles at zero six thirty."

"Wait, wait – you went by her _apartment_? How'd you know where she lived, Timmy?" Abby teased. "Ziva told me you were acting all nervous and gooey about seeing _Jules _again!"

"When did Ziva go from office assassin to office gossip?" McGee asked with slight irritation. "Okay, I admit…there may have been a little something when we worked together before and I was kinda hoping to connect with her again."

"Just make sure you meet her at the airport, McGee, or the next "connection" you feel will be my foot in your ass!" Gibbs shouted. "If it's not DiNozzo trying to chat-up anything in a skirt, it's you! Do your damn fraternizing on your own time, I have an agent missing!"

McGee stood tall, meeting Gibbs' glare with DiNozzo-like confidence. "We're just as worried as you are, Boss. We all want him back."

Gibbs' cell phone sounded and he answered quickly with a gruff, "Gibbs! Tell him I'll be right there," he said, snapping his cell closed. "I'll be with the director."

McGee and Abby exchanged a worried glance as they watched the lead agent walk toward the elevator, punch the call button with more force than was necessary and step into the waiting car. Gibbs was a hard taskmaster who expected and received the best from his team. Many viewed him as dogged and unshakable but those close to him knew that _nothing _could unsettle the former Marine more than a threat to one of his agents.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Torres walked into the small room and winced at the stench of sickness that hung heavily in the air. He watched as the doctor assisted a very weak Bricker to a seated position and adjusted the pillows to support him. Handing him a painkiller, the doctor reached for a glass of water and guided Bricker's trembling hands as he brought the glass to parched lips and took a few solicitous sips.

Bricker had woken twice during the early hours of the morning and both times he had been violently ill and completely disoriented. Even in the dimly lit room, light sensitivity exacerbated the near crippling headaches he was suffering. Knowing the man needed much more than he could offer, the doctor wrote a prescription and insisted Torres have one of his men drive to an all night drugstore to have it filled. The medication had eased the nausea and dizziness but the headaches were merciless.

"How is he?" Torres asked the doctor.

"A little better...but if you want him on his feet this afternoon, you have to let him get his rest," the doctor said tersely.

Bricker squinted up at Torres, the dark smudges under his eyes were stark against too pale skin…he looked like hell but at least he was conscious.

"Welcome back," Torres stated flatly.

"What happened?" Gus replied barely above a whisper.

"What do you remember?"

"Not much."

"Do you remember me?"

Gus frowned deeply and reached long, shaky fingers to rub his temples as if trying to entice the name from his mind.

"Torres…Carlos Torres, " he said finally before repeating. "What happened?"

"We were preparing a shipment when we experienced a little…technical failure," Torres hedged.

"Drugs or guns?" Gus asked.

"C-4," Torres replied with a frown.

"'splains the headache," Gus said with a grimace.

"The boss is looking for a scapegoat and…well…you're the weapons specialist," Torres shrugged.

'_The boss.' _The phrase triggered something in Gus' mind, the memory teased, but finally eluded him completely. "This was…my fault?" he asked.

"Guess you're not as good as you said you were," Torres replied.

His mind flashed to an image of a friendly face, someone he knew and trusted.

"Where's Ray?"

"He got caught in the blast," Torres said. "He didn't make it."

Gus wasn't really sure why that news made his stomach muscles constrict painfully and his breath catch. He couldn't remember much about Ray but he knew that he'd liked him. Torres was another matter, he neither liked nor trusted this man but in his line of work, that was not uncommon.

"We gotcha a doc," Torres said nodding towards the doctor.

"Didn't know…I was covered for…workers' comp," Gus replied, moving gingerly into a more comfortable position then swallowing convulsively as his stomach threatened another rebellion. "If I'm the scapegoat…why bother with the doc?"

"Self-preservation," Torres told him. "We have another shipment tomorrow. If we can get you on your feet and get the job done, we might _both _be off the hook."

"What kind of job?" Gus rasped, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply.

"Weapons assembly – M16 assault rifles and RPG-7's, M-67 grenades - and stamping the serial numbers," Torres told him. "You'll have men to help you but you'll need to oversee their work. We're close to our deadline, you're being exceptionally well paid and we can't afford anymore mistakes."

Gus nodded wearily as the pull of the pain meds ushered him towards sleep and his heavy lids started to close.

The doctor cleared his throat, indicating that "visiting hours" were over.

"We'll go over the details later," Torres said.

Gus' breathing deepened as sleep took him almost instantly and his head canted slightly to one side.

Torres moved to stand beside the doctor.

"I want him up and walking this afternoon," he asked.

"So you said," the doctor answered distractedly. "Torres, you realise that even if we manage to get him on his feet, he is still seriously injured. I don't have the training or the equipment to give a proper diagnosis." His voice took on a desperate edge. "My family will have reported me missing by now. Please, let me go, I'm _begging you!_ I give you my word that I won't go to the police."

"I'll make you a deal, doc," Torres replied, ominously. "If Bricker's on his feet and lucid this afternoon, we'll make arrangements for you to leave."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Have a seat," Vance instructed the lead agent when he appeared in the office doorway.

"You're a little early aren't you, Leon? It's not even zero six-thirty."

"Yeah, well you can blame the damn FBI for that, I've been putting out brush fires all morning," the director replied tersely.

"Problems?" Gibbs asked noting the look of utter frustration on Vance's normally inscrutable face.

"The FBI has some questions," he replied.

"What questions? We've sent them copies of every report and we've communicated every possible lead. They know what we know!"

"They're not concerned about how the investigation is being run, Gibbs."

"Then what's their problem?"

"Not what, who – their beef is with DiNozzo," Vance said.

"Tony?"

"They're wondering why they've had a man undercover for over a month and the day DiNozzo arrives this thing goes to hell."

"They think Tony blew his cover and got Sanchez killed?" Gibbs asked, his eyes blazing.

"They didn't say as much but that's the gist, yes."

"And what did you say, Leon?"

"I'm sitting here talking to you, instead of having breakfast with my family, Gibbs. What the _hell_ did you think I was gonna say?" Vance hissed.

Gibbs nodded abruptly silently conceding his comment was unjustified.

"They want to know why we sent a man undercover who was still recovering from a concussion," Vance said.

"Been asking myself the same question," Gibbs said with self-reproach.

"You know as well as I do that even if Agent Ortiz wasn't pulling temporary duty in Naples, DiNozzo was the best man for this assignment," Vance defended.

Gibbs sighed heavily in resignation.

"Tell me this, Jethro - even though he wasn't one hundred percent fit, do you believe DiNozzo blew this operation?"

"Not a chance in hell," Gibbs replied fervently.

"I agree," Vance replied. "That's why we're stepping this investigation up – you need more resources, ask for them. From now on, all details regarding this case are to be channelled through my office. I'll decide what information is shared and what isn't. Wherever DiNozzo is, find him. I don't want the FBI getting to him before we do."

"You make it sound like Tony could be in danger from the damn FBI!"

"I'm not prepared to take that chance, Gibbs," Vance said firmly. "Are you?"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**Thanks for reading, L**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N REMINDER Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. In any scene where Tony is present, he will be referred to as Gus Bricker. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 16**

An hour had past since Gibbs' discussion with the director, yet his barely contained anger still simmered just below the surface. He didn't know what had happened at the warehouse before the explosion but his gut told him that Tony had _not_ blown this assignment. When it came to all things DiNozzo, he had an almost tangible connection and he was damned sure that he wasn't about to let Tony take the rap.

He checked his cell for messages and cursed under his breath - still nothing from his former Marine commander or from Kort. Gathering his thoughts he returned to the bullpen where Ziva and Morrison were both waiting.

"Tell me _somebody _has _something_," Gibbs said striding back into the bullpen.

"We have something," Ziva said. "You will recall that AFIS and Abby's facial recognition program could not match the fingerprints lifted from several of the men killed at the Ravensworth warehouse. As this case appears to have strong ties to Central America, I sent them to my contact at Interpol who ran them through the international database – we have a match on three, so far."

"Let's see 'em," Gibbs said as Ziva rose to her feet and clicked a remote at the large plasma screen. The screen divided into thirds, each showing the mugshot and brief details of three men.

"Benito Basilio, Jorge Guerra and Juan Gregorio all El Salvador nationals and all released from Chalatenango prison within a week of each other nearly six months ago," she said.

"What were they in for?" Morrison asked.

"Several counts of armed robbery, attempted murder, grievous assault and drug-trafficking."

"Central American sentencing laws are way more severe than ours, how'd these guys get out so fast?"

"You can buy just about anything for the right price," Ziva answered.

"Were any of these men in for weapons smuggling?" Morrison asked.

"No and there is no record of these men ever having served in the military."

"Explains why they needed weapons specialists," Gibbs said. "These guys are the muscle, recruited straight out of prison."

"Visa applications can be forged to hide their identities and prison records but how did they get by the fingerprinting scans at the airport checkpoints? Those are linked to the international database, right?" Morrison asked.

"I do not think they arrived by plane," Ziva replied. "We already believe the weapons are being smuggled into one of the larger shipping ports, yes? If someone can smuggle in large quantities of weapons…"

"They can smuggle a few people?" Gibbs finished. "Morrison?"

"I called at the home of Murray Blake, the guy who runs an auto repair shop across the road from the warehouse in Fairfax," Morrison said. "Blake was taking out his trash cans when the warehouse exploded. He went inside to get his cell and to call 911 and when he returned he saw two vehicles leaving the parking lot – a truck and a sedan."

"Description?"

"Five ton, green and no markings was the best he could do on the truck," Morrison replied.

"And the car?" Ziva asked.

"We had better luck there," Morrison replied. "The car was a late model Chevrolet Impala, silver in colour with the licence plate ending in 83."

"Check the DMV records. Find out how many cars fit that description in the tri-state area," Gibbs instructed.

"No need," Morrison said. "I took a chance and ran Torres' name through the DMV records. He drives a silver, 2008 Chevy Impala, licence plate number BGK-783. I've already put out a BOLO with instructions to follow but not detain."

"Good work, stay on it," Gibbs said, finally feeling the investigation gaining momentum. "Where's McGee?"

"He is meeting Agent Foster-Yates at the airport," Ziva replied.

"You get anything, I want to know about it immediately," Gibbs instructed. "No information leaves this office without going through me or the director."

"Not even to the FBI?" Ziva asked.

"Especially to the FBI – they're trying to pin this mess on Tony. I'm going for coffee," he said taking the stairs to work off a little more frustration and leaving Ziva and Morrison with twin looks of astonishment.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

In his sixty-three years, Doctor Maxwell had never felt so agitated or so terrified. Although he was certain that Bricker had suffered some form of brain trauma, his abductors had demanded that he get the man up and walking by the end of the day. They had made it very clear that Bricker's survival was tightly linked with his own.

The doctor was a general practitioner, not a neurologist, and getting the balance of medication right was not easy. As a consequence, Bricker spent most of the day drifting between a drug-induced slumber and mind-numbing pain, slipping in and out of consciousness.

An earlier attempt to get him on his feet had failed miserably as the haze of the medication caused his dizziness and disorientation to worsen. On legs that wouldn't support him, Bricker staggered drunkenly before falling heavily to his knees. He'd squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot bile rising into his throat and dry retched as the movement intensified the pain in his head. They'd attempted to help him to his feet when his eyes rolled back and he'd passed out again.

Torres had been furious, cursing loudly, brandishing his pistol and threatening to kill the doctor on the spot. A moment of clarity prevailed and he'd realised that without Maxwell, Bricker would not be ready for their next weapons transaction. They'd half-dragged, half-carried a semi-conscious Bricker back to the bedroom where he'd fallen into a restless sleep.

_Something was wrong. Abe Hargrove was gone – busted, she'd said. She told him she was Abe's daughter. He didn't believe her but he needed the money and needed to move the goods. She didn't trust him either, scanned his fingerprints and accessed his prison record. His image and record appeared on her computer, Gus Bricker. His hair shaved into a severe Marine cut. Leavenworth - three to five years for possession of methamphetamines – paroled in two. She opened the safe and his heart started to race – she was hiding something. She pivoted suddenly, aiming a gun at his chest._

He jerked awake, disoriented as the room blurred around him. He shut his eyes against the glare, gritting his teeth against the nauseating sensation that the earth was spinning beneath him. The pain flared in his temples as he struggled to raise his head. His memory was vague and clouded and the more he tried to recall what had happened, the more it exacerbated the throbbing in his head. Spots danced across his vision, as a mixture of colours and the sound of quiet voices overwhelmed his senses. His head thudded back against the pillow then, mercifully, he faded away.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs took a large cup of his favourite blend from the barista and dropped his change in the tips jar. Turning to leave the coffee shop, he saw Fornell seated at a table near the door and fought the urge to walk right by.

"Before you say anything," Fornell said, "I hope you know that whatever accusations have been directed toward DiNozzo, didn't come from me."

"Never thought they had."

"Director Timmins isn't pleased that NCIS have made more ground in a week than we have in six. Despite what he said to Vance, he's pissed that this is now a shared investigation and he's _really_ pissed that I knew DiNozzo was recovering from injury and didn't say anything."

"You still leading this case?"

"For now, but there's talk that our friendship is getting in the way of me doing my job," Fornell said.

"Timmins has always been quick to use that friendship when it suits him," Gibbs replied.

"Maybe, but not this time - he's assigned Senior FBI Agent Larry Caldwell as co-lead in the case."

"Caldwell the one making the accusations?"

Fornell's silent look over the rim of his latte was answer enough.

"What the hell is his problem?" Gibbs asked loudly, attracting the attention of nearby patrons. "He doesn't even know DiNozzo!"

"Caldwell's ambitious as hell. Rumour has it that he's planning on leaving the Bureau to run for congressman in his home state in November. This is a big case, Jethro, the Pentagon and Capitol Hill are all keenly watching how this one's handled. Caldwell knows that if he leads the team that makes the arrest, he's almost assured victory in the election. That's why he's pushing so hard for the Bureau to take point in this investigation."

"Not at DiNozzo's expense"

"Whatever takes the heat off the Bureau and shows Caldwell in a good light," Fornell said.

Gibbs forced himself to relax, the Styrofoam cup in danger of imploding in his tightening grip and spilling the scalding contents.

"Just thought I'd give you the heads up," Fornell said rising to his feet.

Gibbs nodded his thanks and remained standing at the vacant table for several minutes after Fornell had departed. His senior field agent was in trouble and it would take more than an over-ambitious FBI agent to deflect him from the singular purpose of getting his agent back safely and with his reputation untarnished.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

After a couple of hours sleep and forcing a few bites of toast, Gus' next attempt at getting mobile had proved to be much more successful. The doctor and Torres assisted him to a standing position where he'd wavered a little before finding his equilibrium. The medication made him groggy and weak but the brutal aching in his head had marginally loosened its miserable grip. He'd even managed a wash and a short walk to the kitchen without falling on his ass. Light sensitivity was still a problem, exacerbated every time the doctor chose to check his pupil reactions by shining a damn penlight into his eyes. Although there seemed to be no improvement, the doc seemed to take solace from the fact that his condition had not worsened.

Gus had been awake for just over three hours when a severe pain spasm struck him and his handsome face distorted as he tried to gasp through it. A kaleidoscope of colour and fragmented memories assaulted and threatened to overwhelm him.

"_You killed a federal Marshal?" "Don't know that I actually killed him." "I'm angry and I'm immature and I like control!" "Three to five for a first offence on possession seems a little steep." "The Corps has higher standards." "They picked you."_

His knees almost buckled and he felt strong hands gripping his arms and holding him upright.

"I'm okay," Bricker groaned through tightly gritted teeth, shrugging off their assistance.

His actions belied his words as he pressed one shaky hand firmly against his temple trying to squeeze the pain away while the other grabbed the table for support. A hand appeared in front of his face with two yellow pills on the palm.

"Take these, quickly," the doctor's voice urged and with trembling fingers Gus took them and swallowed them, feeling one of them stick momentarily in this throat before continuing down into his stomach.

He was drenched in sweat and trembling with pain and fatigue as they helped him into a chair and he tried desperately to slow his harsh breathing. Minutes seemed like hours until he felt the medication kick in and the agony faded to a pulsating ache. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands, relieved that the worst appeared to be over. The doctor patted his shoulder and walked across the room to where Torres stood watching.

"Looks like we've found the right dose of medication - at least temporarily" he said holding the pill bottle in his hands. "Make no mistake, he desperately needs to be in a hospital - but if you ensure he rests before you need him and after he has an attack, these pills should keep him on his feet for a few hours at a time."

"Good," Torres said nodding. "A few hours is all we need."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

By the time Gibbs arrived back at the office, McGee had returned from the airport.

"What've you got, McGee?"

"I spoke with Agent Foster-Yates and she gave me a list of companies who regularly import goods from Central America into Norfolk and have increased their importation activity over the past six months," McGee replied.

"She knew that off the top of her head?" Morrison asked.

"Increased activity is a flag to ICE and to Customs that something…er…hinky may be going on…besides, it's a short list."

"Go on," Gibbs directed.

"Over the course of the last six months, four US or US based Central American companies have substantially increased the number of container importations into Norfolk," McGee said. "I've had a quick look at the prospectuses for each of these companies and Lopez Industries is by far the biggest."

"Matteo Lopez?" Gibbs asked.

"You know him, Boss?"

"Only what I read in the business and social sections," Gibbs replied.

"Oh, well, then you'd know that he's facing various charges of…._you_ read the social section, Boss?" McGee asked in surprise.

Gibbs answered with a foreboding glare.

"Right…not important… er…as I was saying, you probably know that Matteo Lopez is facing various charges of tax evasion and wilfully concealing income from the IRS."

"What do we have on Lopez?" Gibbs asked Morrison as the probational agent keyed the name into the database on his computer.

"Matteo Lopez, aged 64. Fled his home in San Salvador during the Civil War in 1990 and was granted refugee status and later US citizenship. In 1992 when civil war ended, he started an import/export company, trading in anything from electrical appliances to Central American antiquities. He exports to many parts of the world and built his company into a highly successful, multi million-dollar concern. The IRS has an ongoing investigation into the non-declaration of large amounts of funds which, if proved, could see Lopez facing a prison term."

"Ziva?"

"I will call my contacts in Interpol again, perhaps they have some additional information on Lopez we can use," she said already dialling the number.

"McGee, you and Morrison do a background check on the other three companies on the ICE watch list, let me know if you get something," he said taking the stairs to the director's office.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Report!" Lopez growled into the burn phone.

"Bricker's doing better," Torres told him. "The doc suspects brain trauma of some kind but had him up and around for over three hours today. He's not sure how long he can keep him going but it will be long enough to oversee our next shipment."

"You're sure?"

"Sure as I can be," Torres said. "We'll keep him resting until the last moment, he should be fine."

"Make sure of it, Carlos," Lopez threatened. "We need Bricker or this shipment doesn't happen. If he so much as breaks a nail, I will hold you personally responsible. Do you understand?"

The subtext of the conversation may have been more subtle than the threat Torres had repeatedly made to the doctor, but the message was the same – Bricker dies, you die.

"Yes, Sir," Torres said.

"Have you contacted Castillo?"

"I left several messages on his burn phone. If he's inside the factory, he wouldn't have it with him," Torres explained. "He'll phone, Sir, he wouldn't risk his daughter's life."

"Call me when it's set," Lopez replied.

"What do you want me to do with the doctor?"

"If you're finished with him, kill him!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Matteo Lopez?" Vance asked as Gibbs brought him up to date with the investigation.

"You know him?"

"By name only, there's a pending IRS investigation that may put him away for tax evasion," Vance said. "You want to bring him in for questioning?"

"Can't tie him to anything," Gibbs replied. "If he's as shrewd as they say, he could shut the operation down and leave us with nothing. There'd be no reason for him to keep DiNozzo alive. Torres is the key – we find him, lean on him and get him to roll on Lopez."

"You think DiNozzo's cover is still intact?" the director asked.

"Torres and his men don't have the weapons training Tony does. With Estefan and Sanchez dead, they'll need him for their next shipment," Gibbs said. "Tony's blood was found at the scene – either he was injured in the blast and his cover's still intact or his cover's blown and he was taken under duress."

"Either way he's in trouble," Vance stated. "SecNav's already received a complaint from the Justice Department – the FBI feel we've muscled in on their investigation and are now stonewalling them to cover for DiNozzo."

He held up his hand to silence Gibbs' protest.

"Leave it to the Bureau to scream foul-play when they get shown up by another agency," Vance said, with more than a modicum of displeasure. "I've gone toe-to-toe with Neil Timmins many times, it's not like him to have someone else fight his battles. I get the feeling there's more going on behind the scenes than we know. I'll stall as long as I can but with the Attorney General breathing down our necks, we'll have to play nicely. Find DiNozzo, Gibbs, find him fast!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gus was laying on the bunk, his pale face was drawn and faint beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead. His eyes, bruised with fatigue, were squinting against the dim lighting as the doctor released the blood pressure cuff and placed it back into his medical bag.

"The medication is making you drowsy," he said with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "Let me check your pupil response again and then you can sleep."

He extended his index finger and moved it several times from right to left and then up and down. His brow furrowed, as Gus' attempts to follow the movement with his eyes was slow and faltering. He removed his penlight from his pocket, switched it on and noted Gus' sharp hiss of pain as he shone the light in both eyes. The younger man turned his head away from the penetrating light, inadvertently aggravating the headache from hell.

"I'll let you sleep now," Doctor Maxwell consoled.

As the tension eased from his body, Gus' eyes slowly closed and the pull of the strong medication beckoned him into a tantalizing and pain-free darkness.

The doctor glanced at Torres who stood watching from the doorway.

"He'll sleep for about two hours," he said wearily. "The medication appears to be temporarily suppressing the majority of his symptoms – he seems to be able to go longer between each attack. You should be able to keep him on his feet for several hours during the next day or two. But this is not a cure and he still could die without hospital treatment – you need to keep him resting until you need him and when you're done with whatever it is you want him to do - get him to a hospital fast."

Torres nodded to Alvaro and Vargas and both men sidled up to the doctor, tightly grasping his biceps.

"What's the meaning of this?" the doctor stammered in alarm.

"You know what to do," Torres told Vargas who nodded his understanding and manhandled the struggling doctor towards the door.

"No!" the doctor shrieked, his eyes wide with terror. "You promised! I did everything you asked! Please! I have a family, I won't tell anyone, I swear!"

Torres stepped forth and landed a powerful right cross on the doctor's jaw, momentarily silencing his pleas as the blow stunned him into submission. The three men dragged the unwilling doctor to the back of the house where Torres' car was waiting with the trunk open. They forcibly deposited him into the trunk and slammed it closed as the muffled shouts and cries for help began in earnest.

"Take him somewhere his body won't be discovered for at least a week," Torres ordered. "We'll be gone by then and it won't matter if they trace him back to us."

He watched as the car drove away and the red taillights disappeared around the corner and into the night.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

As the silver Impala recklessly sped through the early evening traffic on the I-395, Alvaro sighed impatiently and checked the speed for the fourth time.

"I'm telling you, man, slow down! We don't want to attract attention while we have our passenger on board," Alvaro warned.

"I just want to get there, do what we have to and get back," Vargas said, not slowing the car. "At least he's stopped yelling."

"For now," the two men said simultaneously and laughed nervously.

Their mirth abruptly ceased and the men looked around wildly as the quick burst from a police yelp siren sounded. A highway patrol unit smoothly maneuvered in behind them with its lights flashing.

"Pull the vehicle to the side of the road and turn off the engine," the voice of the police officer sounded through the loudspeaker system on the patrol car.

"_I told you!" _Alvaro hissed. "What the _hell_ are we going to do now?"

Knowing the doctor would start to scream for help the moment their vehicle stopped, Vargas stomped the gas pedal to the floor and accelerated dangerously with the police vehicle in pursuit.

Perilously weaving between the commuter vehicles, the Impala continued to gain speed and ignored a red light to hurtle through a major intersection. Side-swiping several cars, its left side wheels lifted precariously into the air as the Impala executed a sharp right turn, leaving the vehicular carnage behind. The pursuing police officers called for backup and EMT's to attend the accident victims as they navigated the intersection at a more cautious speed and continued after the Impala.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"Boss," McGee called from his desk as Gibbs re-entered the bullpen. "Port Authority records at Norfolk Shipping Yard, concur with the four companies named on the ICE watch list. Each has increased its container imports substantially over the last six months."

"Lopez Industries?" Gibbs asked.

"Has had the biggest increase by far, almost doubling the number of containers it receives from Central America."

"What about Customs checks?"

"According to Special Agent Foster-Yates, ICE ordered US Customs and Border Protection officials to conduct four random checks in the past 6 months and all four were clean," McGee said.

"Whoa!" Morrison exclaimed, suddenly jumping to his feet. "I got a hit!"

"Unless you want another one, Morrison, you better tell me whatcha got!" Gibbs quipped.

"My BOLO, I gotta hit on my BOLO!"

"Torres' car?" Ziva asked.

"Yes, it's currently involved in a police chase," Morrison said reading from his computer monitor. "It was heading south on the I-395, now traveling west on Duke St Lincolnia."

"Grab your gear, let's go. McGee call Ducky, I want him there in case we find DiNozzo," Gibbs ordered, suppressing the anxiousness from his voice with the ease of practice as the agents rushed toward the exit.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Torres entered the small bedroom, expecting to find Bricker still sleeping but heartened to find him resting in an over stuffed armchair in the darkness of the room.

"Where is this place?" Gus asked in a raspy voice.

"Annandale, the house is leased by one of my men," Torres said. "You want to eat?"

Gus' stomach churned at the thought of food and he shook his head gingerly.

"Water?" he asked, rising slowly and wincing as each movement ignited some form of pain.

He followed Torres as he gestured him toward the adjoining kitchen. Moving slowly, he eased himself into a kitchen chair as Torres placed a bottle of water in front of him. Removing the lid, Gus downed half the contents before coming up for air.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and met Torres' gaze. "Tell me again about tomorrow's job."

"We have been smuggling crates of weapons into the country in pieces to avoid Customs. Mixing the pieces in with legitimate machinery parts. These crates will be transported to one of our warehouses and the weapons need to be assembled, stamped with a local manufacturer's mark and with serial numbers taken from the manifest of the manufacturer," Torres explained. "We need you to oversee the assembly."

"What kind of weapons?" Gus asked.

Torres huffed his impatience. He'd already covered this with Bricker but the head injury had obviously left the man with more than a few memory gaps. He went through the details again and was relieved to see the lucidity and understanding in the other man's eyes.

"M16 assault rifles, M-9, SMAW's – you got access to a military contractor," Gus said. "Which manufacturer are you using?"

"COL."

"Corbin Ordnance Limited?" Gus said the name aloud, as it triggered a memory. It sat at the edge of his foggy mind, mocking and taunting him as he tried unsuccessfully to reach it. The harder he tried to unlock the recollection, the stronger the pounding in his temples became until his skull felt like it was about to split in two.

"Bricker!"

Gus broke free of his fugue state and realised from the tone of Torres' voice that he had been calling his name for a few moments.

"I'm 'kay," he mumbled, trying to rub the lingering ache from behind his eyes.

"You should rest," Torres said, taking him firmly by the bicep and assisting him to his feet. "The boss won't tolerate any more screw-ups – you need to be on your game."

_'The boss.' _There it was again - every time he heard that term, Bricker's gut clenched painfully but he didn't know why. As fatigue started to overwhelm him, he nodded and made his way back into the bedroom.

Torres watched him go, relieved that Bricker was showing signs of improvement and hopeful that he could get through the next day's workload – Bricker's life, as well as his own, depended on it.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

_Many thanks to those of you who responded to my guest post on Moki's blog. We received many varied and insightful comments and are extremely grateful. To those of you who haven't yet visited, you are more than welcome and we'd enjoy hearing from you. The link can be found on my profile page. _

Thanks for reading and for your very kind reviews and well wishes, L


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N REMINDER Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. In any scene where Tony is present, he will be referred to as Gus Bricker. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 17**

The rear wheels of the upturned Impala were still spinning as Gibbs brought the agency sedan to a sliding halt at the accident site.

Quickly determining there was no danger, the agents secured their weapons and flashed their IDs at the Metro PD officers standing nearby. Thirty feet to the right of the car a body lay face down in the dirt and Gibbs' chest tightened as he neared the dead man. If Torres was dead, their chances of quickly finding Tony, reduced considerably.

Ziva moved to the side of the body, careful not to disturb the crime scene and leaned in to see the dead man's face. She exhaled in relief and looked up at the lead agent.

"It is not Torres, Gibbs," she said, reading anxiousness in the eyes of the otherwise implacable expression. Turning away from Ziva's obvious scrutiny, Gibbs turned his attention to the police officers.

"What happened?" he said.

"There were two of them, Sir," the officer replied gesturing toward the dead man. "He was the driver. We clocked him doing 30 over the limit and signalled him to pull over. He tried to make a run for it, we pursued; he was going too fast to take the corner and rolled the vehicle. We didn't know about your BOLO until we were already involved in the chase."

"Where's the passenger?"

"The driver and the passenger crawled from the wreckage - they were both armed. The driver fired two shots, I returned fire and hit him high in the chest with both rounds. The passenger ran into the wooded area and my partner went after him."

"The guy runs like a jack-rabbit," his partner offered, still trying to catch his breath and silently vowing to lay off the donuts. "I tried to stay with him but lost him in the trees."

"You call for back-up?"

"Yes, Sir, I called for back-up, the dog squad and the coroner's van," the officer replied.

"You can call off the coroner's van," Gibbs said, nodding to where Palmer was pulling the NCIS van to the side of the road. "Ours has just arrived."

"McGee, Morrison!" Gibbs called as he approached their position by the rear of the car. "Grab the gear and.…"

A pounding that sounded from within the trunk, cut his words short and caused both younger agents to pivot and draw their weapons.

"Help me, please, let me out of here!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Alvaro ran like the devil himself was after him, overwhelmingly grateful that he was a natural athlete and had worked at his fitness even during his incarceration. He zigzagged his way though the wooded area, purposely placing the trees between him and the pursuing cop, making it virtually impossible for the officer to take accurate aim.

He heard the loud curse and the cessation of the heavy footfalls behind him and knew the cop had given up the chase – but still he continued running. Alvaro cleared the trees and crossed the parkland, and did not slow until he was certain he was not being followed - then he bent at the waist, placed his hands on his knees and sucked in three or four deep breaths. He'd reached into his pocket for his cell and waited impatiently for Torres to pick up.

"It's Miguel," he said still struggling to get his breath under control. "We've got trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Torres snapped.

"Cop trouble," Alvaro gasped. "Vargas was speeding…the cops chased us and he rolled the car!"

"Where's Vargas?"

"I don't know…we both got out of the car and I ran into the woods…I heard shooting…I think, maybe, Vargas got caught," Alvaro replied still trying to regain his breath. "Carlos, you have to get…outta there, man. Alive or dead, if the cops…find out who Vargas is…they'll search his house."

"What about the doctor?" Torres asked.

"He's still in the trunk."

"_Is he alive?" _Torres yelled furiously.

"I'm just guessing but…yeah, I'd say he's still alive."

The vehemence and ferocity of the obscenities that poured from Torres mouth would have made the most hardened sailor blush.

"Get the men to the warehouse we're using for tomorrow's shipment," Torres ordered. "Tell them to bring a bedroll – no-one leaves until the job's done. There'll be no more screw-ups!"

"How are you gonna get there? We had your car."

"Don't worry about me – just get the men there now!" he cut the connection with a definite snap of his phone and went to rouse Bricker.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

A minor debate regarding jurisdiction had ensued when the detectives and IA investigators arrived at the scene, however, with assurances to provide copies of all reports and statements, Gibbs and his team continued their investigation unhindered.

The Metro PD dog squad had arrived and began scouring the wooded area and parkland but lost the scent of their quarry at the bus stop on a neighbouring street. Metro PD was attempting to contact all bus drivers working that particular route.

Ducky had tended to the minor cuts and abrasions Doctor Maxwell had suffered whilst in the trunk of the car, however the realisation of his narrow escape appeared to hit Maxwell all at once and he began trembling, vomiting and sobbing inconsolably. Ducky wrapped the doctor in a blanket and tried to calm the man as best he could.

"He up to answering questions, Duck?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm afraid not, Jethro, not at the moment, anyway," Ducky replied, steering the agent away so they could continue their conversation. "He appears to be quite badly traumatised and may well be going into shock."

"He tell you how he got in the trunk?"

"It seems the poor man was abducted at gunpoint when he left the Annandale Medical Centre – his place of employment. He was forced into the trunk of a car and held against his will."

"He say why?"

"No, he became quite overwrought and I thought it best to wait until we returned to the office," Ducky explained. "If you're agreeable, Jethro, I'd like to take him back with me."

"In the coroner's van?" Morrison asked in surprise.

"I shall dispense with the body bag if that's your concern, Agent Morrison!" Ducky said slightly exasperated.

"Morrison, give Palmer a hand putting the real body in the body bag," Gibbs instructed. "Then ride back with them, I want an agent with Maxwell at all times."

"Yes, Agent Gibbs," Morrison replied. "Er…Doctor Mallard, I'm sorry, I thought you meant…never mind…I'm…gonna go help Palmer."

Shaking his head, Ducky watched the young agent jog over to assist Palmer.

"Is it just me or do they keep getting younger?" he asked.

Gibbs' lips quirked in answer until the sound of more retching filled the air.

"Oh dear," Ducky said sympathetically.

"Stay with him, Duck, if we're gonna find DiNozzo, I want him ready to answer some questions by the time we get back."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Bricker was awake, laying on his back in the darkened room and staring at an indiscriminate spot on the ceiling. The name Corbin Ordnance Limited kept gnawing at his embattled memory. The fact that he knew this company was no surprise to him - in his line of work he knew many ordnance and ammunitions companies and had handled their products in his many illegal weapons transactions. But there was something else, something that taunted yet stayed just out of reach of his memory. When he felt the telltale throbbing in his temples, he took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax. He was close to drifting off when Torres burst through the door.

"On your feet," he ordered, flicking on the overhead light and causing Gus to grunt as shards of pain shot into his brain.

Gus raised his hand to shelter his eyes, groaning as he slowly and tentatively swung his legs over the side of the bed. He closed his eyes to slits to avoid letting in too much light.

"What's going on?" he mumbled.

"The house has been compromised. We've gotta go, can you walk?"

"I can walk," he said climbing painfully to his feet and shrugging off Torres' hand as he tried to steady him.

"We need to walk about a mile. There's a mall and we can boost a car from the parking lot. You gonna make it?"

"I'll make it, let's go," Bricker said sounding more determined than he actually felt.

Although he'd managed to stay conscious a little longer each time he woke, he hadn't walked further than the kitchen or bathroom in nearly two days.

Jamming his feet into his shoes and shrugging on a jacket, they left the house and started the walk toward the mall in the darkness, as the drizzling rain became a downpour.

He nearly made it. The lights of the mall were in sight when Gus' knees gave way and he was forced to throw his arm around Torres' shoulders to save from face-planting the sidewalk. Even with Torres steadying him, they staggered several times as he lost his footing on the wet and slippery sidewalk. Both hearts skipped several beats when a patrol car gave a double burst of its yelp siren and a harsh spot light illuminated them.

"What's the problem here?" the officer asked through the car window.

"No problem, officer," Torres said. "My buddy here got a little hammered, I'm just making sure he gets home okay."

"In this rain?" the officer said. "Where's your car?"

"To be perfectly honest, officer, we both had too much to drink and I couldn't get a cab. He lives just down the block – we'll be fine."

The officer assessed Bricker carefully and, for a moment, both men thought Bricker had been recognised.

"You sure he's okay? He looks pretty out of it."

"You think he looks bad now, wait until his wife gets her hands on him!" Torres grinned, "or me for letting him get this tanked!"

"Maybe you should get in. I'll drive you home."

"And let his wife see us stumble out of a police car? Believe me, Officer, it'll be better for all of us if we walk. The woman's a pit-bull when she's riled!"

"I hear that!" the officer chuckled. "I'll leave you to it, then."

As the patrol car slowly drove out of sight, they released twin sighs of relief.

"That was too close," Torres said. "Come on, Bricker, just a little further."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

McGee had used the Livescan finger print scanner and identified the driver of car as Marco Vargas, another Salvadoran and a known associate of Carlos Torres. Arriving back at the office, he fired up his computer to access more information.

Ducky lent a steadying hand to one of Maxwell's elbows and Morrison steadied him from the other side as the still visibly shaken doctor accompanied them from the elevator. Ducky slowly led the man to the water-cooler while Morrison hustled into the bullpen.

"You got something?" Gibbs asked.

"You mean besides a headache from puke-fumes and a new aversion to carrots?" Morrison replied. "Man, I haven't seen that much puke since I saw The Exorcist!"

The quick head-slap startled him into silence and he blinked rapidly in response.

"Morrison, what have you got?" Gibbs asked, slightly irritated as he tried to focus the probationary agent.

"Sorry. In one of the few moments Doctor Chunder came up for air, he mentioned that the drive from the Annandale Medical Centre to where he was held, took only about five minutes," Morrison replied. "And he was held in a normal looking suburban house."

"McGee?"

"Accessing DMV records for Vargas' last known address," the acting senior field agent replied, typing speedily into his computer. "Got it! Boss, Vargas' last known address is only three miles from the Annandale Medical Centre."

"Morrison?" Gibbs said.

"Take Doctor Barf to a conference room and help Doctor Mallard make him comfortable until you get there," Morrison said, already heading for the two doctors.

Gibbs once again found himself impressed by the younger man's quick aptitude and anticipation – though he could live without the movie references, one movie buff agent was more than enough.

The ding of the elevator heralded its arrival and the agents turned their heads toward it. As the doors opened, it deposited Fornell and an unknown man into the operations room.

"This cannot be good," Ziva muttered.

As the men climbed the stairs to the mezzanine level, Fornell's eyes met Gibbs' and an almost imperceptible head movement silently beckoned him.

"You two check out Vargas' house. You find anything I want to know about it fast," he said, walking Ziva and McGee to the elevator. He waited as they entered the car then added. "Hey! Watch your backs."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Not bothering to wait to be announced, he was already turning the handle of Vance's office door when the director's voice sounded through the PA's intercom.

"Ask Special Agent Gibbs to come to my office."

With a one-shoulder shrug to the PA, Gibbs opened the door and walked in.

"You wanted to see me, Director?" Gibbs asked, noting Vance's almost comical double take.

"Yes, Gibbs, the FBI would like an update on the investigation," Vance said. "You know Agent Fornell, of course. This is Senior FBI Agent Larry Caldwell."

"Agent Gibbs," Caldwell said extending his hand cordially. "I'm pleased to finally meet you. In our line of work you always hear talk of the best of the best."

"Explains why I never heard of you before today," Gibbs said plainly.

Fornell's obvious guffaw was feebly disguised by a fake coughing fit.

"Sit down, gentlemen," Vance said waiting until they were all seated at the conference table. "Gibbs, the FBI has made some changes - Agent Caldwell has been appointed co-lead agent for this investigation."

Gibbs nodded, not letting on that he was already aware of the change.

"As this is a shared investigation, we're here for a progress report on your side of things," Caldwell added.

"Really? We seem to be the only ones doing the sharing," Gibbs said pointedly.

"What do you want to know?" Caldwell asked smugly leaning back in his chair.

"Aw, I dunno," Gibbs drawled. "We've got three dead Marines; a dead FBI agent; a dead petty officer, four dead arms dealers, at least two dead gang-bangers; not to mention a major weapons smuggling operation going on right here in DC!" Gibbs' voice was calm but his eyes burned brightly with barely restrained rage. "With all that going on, I wanna know where the _hell _you get off accusing my agent?"

Caldwell's eyes darkened and he threw an accusing look in Fornell's direction before answering.

"Just checking all possibilities, Gibbs," he said. "Our agent's cover has been rock solid for over a month and the first day your man goes in all hell breaks loose and our guy dies."

"You don't know what happened! You don't know that DiNozzo screwed up!"

"And you don't know that he didn't!" Caldwell shot back.

"I know the man!"

"Then you have nothing to worry about!" Caldwell's mouth was tight with anger as he returned Gibbs' frosty glare.

"Let's move on," Vance directed, calling an end to the silent duel. "What did you get at the crash site?"

"What crash site?" Caldwell asked, his head turning back and forth between Gibbs and Vance.

"Carlos Torres' car was involved in a police chase. Car rolled, there was a shooting, the driver was killed by Metro PD and the passenger got away," Gibbs stated, referring his answer to Vance and pointedly ignoring the FBI agent.

"When did this happen?" Caldwell asked, his questions still being ignored

"They get Torres?" Vance asked.

Gibbs shook his head. "Driver was Marco Vargas, known associate of Torres' – passenger's still at large."

"Why weren't we informed of this?" Caldwell hissed.

After a brief silence, Gibbs turned to Caldwell and shrugged.

"I'm informing you now," he said.

"This is exactly what I said would happen," Caldwell snapped. "This _shared _investigation arrangement is never going to work!"

Reaching the limit of his patience, Gibbs turned on the FBI agent with an incandescent fury.

"Never gonna work?" he said, strangling his voice to a harsh whisper as he forced it and his expression into a facade of professional detachment. "Tell us what contributions the FBI has made to this investigation in the last week? Hell, knock yourself out; make it the last six weeks! Tell us the progress you've made checking into the international airports and airfields for possible weapons smuggling operations from Central America? Tell us what other government and law enforcement agencies the FBI has liaised with in order to expedite this investigation so you could bring your agent safely home? You've been sitting on your hands for the last six weeks and the minute things go badly you point the finger at my agent? Not gonna happen!"

Gibbs found himself shooting daggers into the dark eyes of FBI Agent Caldwell and once again Vance found it necessary to intervene.

"You have the condolences of everyone at this agency for the loss of Agent Sanchez. However, if you have nothing further to add to this investigation, this meeting is over," he said.

Fornell had been casually leaning back in his chair, watching the events unfold. He leaned forward and placed a calming hand on Caldwell's shoulder.

"We'll take a short break and meet you in the conference room," he said with a wry smile. "I assume the man I saw being hustled toward the conference rooms has information pertinent to this case. We'll meet you there."

As furious as he was, Gibbs bit back a wry grin as the FBI agents left the office. He had learned, long ago, that very little got past his old friend, Tobias Fornell – with the exception of a very fiery redhead with a penchant for emptying bank accounts and a six-foot two, movie-loving agent who could wind him up tighter than a three dollar watch.

"Something you forgot to tell me about?" Vance said, as the door closed behind the departing agents.

"Found a man in the trunk of Torres' car - a doctor. He'd been abducted and held against his will. Looks like they were taking him somewhere to kill him."

"A doctor? You think he was brought in to treat DiNozzo?"

"That'd be my bet," Gibbs said. "Vargas' home is near where the doctor was snatched – McGee and David are on their way there."

"They need more back-up?" Vance said reaching for his phone.

"They'll call if they need it – the passenger would've called the house and told whoever was there to clear out. Could use some help processing the house."

"I'll get someone on it," Vance said.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Torres stopped the nondescript, stolen Nissan in the loading bay of the warehouse and turned his head to look at the near boneless man slumped and sleeping in the passenger seat. Sighing, he flipped his cell open and speed-dialled a number.

"Miguel, have the men arrived?" he asked. "Good…Yeah, we just got here. Send two men out to give me a hand with Bricker."

He ended the call and tried another number.

"Castillo, where the hell are you?" he snarled. "We need to arrange another drop for tomorrow. We'll need the manifest and serial numbers by later tonight. I'll call you tomorrow with the delivery address of the warehouse. If you don't want anything… unfortunate…to happen to that daughter of yours, you better call me back by 10:30 tonight."

Snapping his cell closed he placed it back into his pocket, rounded the car and opened the passenger door, nearly pitching Bricker to the ground.

"Hey!" he said, shaking Bricker's shoulder. "Wake up, we're here."

Bricker cracked an eye open, mumbled something incomprehensible and turned his head away, hunching back into his jacket to ward off the cold outside.

"No, no, don't go back to sleep, you can lie down when we're inside."

Reaching into the car, he grabbed Bricker by the lapels of his jacket and hoisted him to his feet, quickly pressing his back against the vehicle when his rubbery legs threatened to give out. He was joined by two men who each took an arm and walked the ailing weapons specialist into the warehouse.

Torres' body shuddered as a cold shiver ran down his spine. He knew the feeling of foreboding had more to do with Matteo Lopez than the driving rain and his wet clothes. He barked a contemptuous laugh – Lopez had placed him on notice – one more mistake and he was dead – and now his life rested in the hands of a supplier he couldn't contact and a weapons specialist who couldn't remain conscious. He needed tomorrow's weapons exchange to go well, if not, Lopez would make good his threat.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo-oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs walked into the conference room and took a seat at the table opposite Doctor Maxwell – Fornell and Caldwell were already seated at either end. Ducky took a seat next to the clearly perturbed doctor in an attempt to lessen the intimidating atmosphere.

Introductions were made and the interview with Doctor Maxwell began. The doctor wrapped still shaking fingers around a coffee cup and, in a tremulous voice, explained the events leading up to his abduction. He told how he was forced at gunpoint into the trunk of a car and after a short journey of no more than five minutes, the car stopped at a suburban house.

Gibbs placed the photographs taken at the failed Ravensworth surveillance in front of the doctor. Maxwell identified Marco Vargas and Miguel Alvaro as the two men who had abducted him from the Annandale Medical Centre and the two men who forced him into the trunk before the accident.

"We need to get the most recent addresses for Vargas and Alvaro," Caldwell said, pushing his chair back and making to stand. "See if either of them live within five minutes of the Annandale Medical Centre."

"We got it covered. Our people are already there," Gibbs replied flatly, a small part of him enjoying the way Caldwell flushed with anger.

As Caldwell opened his mouth to object, Fornell stood. "If it's all the same to you, Gibbs, I'll have some of own people dispatched as well."

Gibbs shrugged in response and Fornell left the room to place his call.

Continuing his statement, Doctor Maxwell relayed how he was forced into the house and taken to a room near the back where a man lay bloodied and unconscious. He was ordered to keep the man alive and to get him onto his feet or Maxwell would be killed.

"I knew they intended to kill me, anyway," the doctor said. "They made no attempt to hide their faces. I thought my best chance was to help the injured man and give the police time to find me."

"Doctor, how badly was this man injured?" Ducky asked gently.

"They told me he had been injured in an explosion and had been unconscious for five or six hours," Maxwell said. "He had a deep gash on the left side of his head that required suturing, his blood pressure was very low and his pupillary response was slow and unequal."

Gibbs felt his gut clench and the look of concern and apprehension on Ducky's face did nothing to calm him. "Duck?"

"At best it sounds like a serious concussion," the ME replied solemnly. "But, at worst, he could have suffered a severe and potentially life-threatening brain trauma."

"That's what I told them! I told them they needed to get him to a hospital immediately," Maxwell said. "I told them that I am not qualified to diagnose or treat brain injuries but they wouldn't listen! I did what I could to help him - I gave him an injection that raised his blood pressure enough that he regained consciousness a few hours later."

"When he regained consciousness, Doctor, what other symptoms presented?" Ducky asked.

"He was very ill," Maxwell said gravely. "He was disoriented; nauseous; his speech was slurred; he was suffering severe headaches; light sensitivity and frequent syncopal episodes - I was surprised he could tell me his name."

Gibbs placed Tony's photograph in front of the doctor, already certain of the answer but needing official confirmation.

"Is this the man you treated," Gibbs asked.

The doctor nodded emphatically. "That's him, that's Gus Bricker!"

"Who told you that his name was Gus Bricker?" FBI agent Caldwell asked, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward in his chair.

"He did," Maxwell said. "It took a while to get anything out of him but, eventually, he remembered his name."

"Did he say anything else?" Gibbs asked.

"No, he passed out again soon after. I was terrified they were going to kill me right on the spot!" the doctor replied, trying hard to steady his voice.

"Why do you think these men were so desperate to save this…Bricker?" Caldwell asked.

"He's one of them!" Maxwell responded. "I heard them say they needed him and later they were discussing some sort of…heist or something. They said it couldn't happen without Bricker."

"Who? Who was discussing a heist?"

"Torres and Bricker," Maxwell answered. "Bricker was still very sick, severe nausea and excruciating headaches. I had Torres' men fill a prescription and was able to suppress some of his symptoms temporarily – at least enough for him to stay conscious for several hours at a time and walk around a little."

"The man you know as Gus Bricker is NCIS Special Agent, Anthony DiNozzo," Gibbs told him. "Gus Bricker is the name he used in this undercover assignment."

The doctor's eyes widened with surprise. "He's an undercover agent? Oh…I…I didn't know!"

"Doctor, this man suffered a serious head injury and was confused and disoriented when you asked his name. Is that correct?" Caldwell asked.

"Yes, that's correct, he couldn't even tell me what day it was or what had happened to him."

"Yet he told you his name was Gus Bricker not Anthony DiNozzo?" Caldwell pressed. "In such a distressed state and with a serious head trauma wouldn't he be more likely to say his real name?"

"What the _hell_ are you implying, Caldwell?" Gibbs barked.

"I'm not _implying_ anything, Gibbs, I am simply asking a question. Surely the doctor has an opinion," Caldwell stated, turning to address the doctor again. "Doctor Maxwell, _in your opinion, _would this man have been cognisant enough to maintain his cover?"

"No…at least…it's not likely," Maxwell said hesitantly.

"So, DiNozzo was either faking the seriousness of his injury – which the good doctor here assures us he was not - or he's been playing us for fools and he's running his own scam."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Many thanks for your wonderful support. Lots more action and drama coming as the team search desperately for Tony. L


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 18**

Gibbs slammed his open palm onto the desk, causing the already edgy Doctor Maxwell to jerk in fright and spill his coffee.

"You damn-well better not be saying what I think your saying, Caldwell," he hissed.

"You heard the doctor, Gibbs!" Caldwell exclaimed. "To sustain such a serious head injury and be so disoriented you don't know what day it is, yet still be able to maintain your cover – that would be an extraordinary feat."

"DiNozzo's an extraordinary agent," Gibbs contested without hesitation.

"So you say," Caldwell replied before turning his attention back to the doctor. "Doctor Maxwell, while you were treating this man, were there ever occasions when the two of you were alone and the man was conscious?"

"Yes, there were several?" Maxwell said.

"Did this man make any attempt to tell you his real identity or to assist you to escape?"

"Well…no…but he was very ill and he really wasn't saying much of anything."

"So, you're saying this _extraordinary,_ highly trained federal agent, who must have been aware that you were going to be killed, was too sick to help you escape but not too sick to maintain his cover and save his own skin?"

Gibbs' expression hardened and he shoved his fisted hands deep into his pockets to avoid the temptation of landing a right cross on Caldwell's jaw.

Recognising the dangerous expression on Gibbs' face, Ducky quickly rose to his feet, wrapping his fingers around Doctor Maxwell's bicep and pulling him upwards.

"Why don't we step outside a moment, Doctor? I'm sure you'd like to freshen up," Ducky said, manoeuvring Maxwell out the door.

Gibbs took a deep breath to calm himself – it didn't work. His eyes bored into Caldwell's like lasers and almost a minute passed until he found his voice.

"Until we find DiNozzo, you've got nothing but speculation and unfounded accusations," Gibbs ground out between tightly clenched teeth.

"I've got Doctor Maxwell," Caldwell said. "Come on, Gibbs, DiNozzo wouldn't be the first law enforcement officer to supplement his income by playing both sides against the middle?"

"You think DiNozzo's on the take?"

"Seems to explain the nice car, expensive clothes, the high-end apartment…"

"DiNozzo's from a wealthy family," Gibbs said, reluctant to discuss Tony's personal life further than that.

"_Was_, Gibbs, he _was_ from a wealthy family. My sources say that DiNozzo's mother is dead and his old man has been broke for years and cut his son out of his inheritance well before that."

"_You son of a bitch!" _Gibbs growled._ "We've been investigating this case and you've been investigating my agent?_"

"In case you have forgotten, one of the FBI's best agents was killed during this assignment. The Bureau, his colleagues and his family want to know why. I'm just looking for answers!"

"You're looking in the wrong damn direction. You won't find your answers digging into DiNozzo's background. Whatever financial troubles his father has had, Tony had nothing to do with it."

"My information says that DiNozzo Senior has run more than a few money grabbing scams in his time. Looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. How else do you explain…"

The sentence was never completed as the door flew open and a blur of white lab coat and black pigtails barged into the room.

"Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs! I've been looking for you everywhere! I've got something you have to hear…and…I…."

She stopped suddenly, noticing Caldwell for the first time and feeling the tension in the room.

"Oh…um…sorry, Gibbs. When they told me you were in here yelling at an FBI agent, I just naturally assumed it was Fornell 'cause, well, you know how you and Fornell always do that verbal jousting thing that you do. Anyway, I thought if it was just Fornell that he wouldn't mind if I interrupted, 'cause I really think that under his FBI-ness, he kinda likes me a little bit."

"Whatcha got, Abs?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, well, you know how I've been trying to resurrect Tony's cell to extract any data that may have survived the fire?" she asked.

"You got the data?" Caldwell asked.

"Don't be silly, FBI Man! That is gonna take a little longer 'cause the circuits are, like, totally frr-azzled," she said, wincing internally at her near inadvertent use of McGee's 'fried' joke.

"That's what you haven't got, Abs, what have you got?" Gibbs asked.

"This!" she said holding a cell in an evidence bag. "Castillo's burn phone. It's the cell Torres used to contact Castillo to arrange the weapons shipments. I thought that if Tony had been able to extract the data from Torres phone, we might be able to compare the two."

"And?"

"The battery was flat in Castillo's phone, so I put it on the charger and there were several missed calls and messages – from Carlos Torres!" Abby said. "They all basically say the same thing. This is the latest one that was left an hour ago."

Abby pressed a few buttons on the cell and switched the message to loudspeaker just as Torres voice sounded.

"_Castillo, where the hell are you?" _he said. _"We need to arrange another drop for tomorrow. We'll need the manifest and serial numbers by later tonight. I'll call you tomorrow with the delivery address of the warehouse. If you don't want anything… unfortunate…to happen to that daughter of yours, you better call me back by 10:30 tonight."_

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs anxiously paced the floor in the director's office, waiting for Vance to finish his call.

"Yes, Sir…I understand…I'll pass that on…thank you, Sir."

"Well?" Gibbs asked impatiently.

"You have a go," Vance said. "SecNav agrees with your assessment of the situation. We may not have enough to pin this to Lopez but by taking the warehouse tomorrow we can nail Torres and shut down the operation for awhile."

"And DiNozzo?"

"Remains a priority," Vance replied. "We're taking an unusual amount of heat from the Hill as well as the Pentagon to find the people responsible for the death of the Marines, we don't need the FBI throwing around accusations of a rogue agent. Bring him in."

"What about Corbin? We'll need to borrow a truck."

"Jack Corbin's attending a weapons and ordnance safety symposium in Geneva. Won't be home for a few days."

"This thing won't work without Castillo."

"He's a civilian, Gibbs, we can't force him to help and we can't knowingly place him in danger."

"If he agrees to help?"

"That's a whole different story," Vance said. "Call him, if he's agreeable, set it up."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

McGee and Ziva had returned from Vargas' home and were seated at their desks when Gibbs entered the bullpen. Unlike the men killed in the shootout at the Ravensworth warehouse, Marco Vargas had been living in the DC area for three years. As expected, the house had been deserted by the time they had arrived. Whoever had been staying there had left in a hurry, not bothering to switch off the television or lock the doors. After determining there was nothing of major importance left at the house, they left the processing of the scene to Agent Mailley's team and returned to the Navy Yard as an army of FBI SWAT and Evidence Response Teams descended.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at his FBI counterpart.

"Overkill, Tobias?"

"Just being cautious, Gibbs," Fornell replied.

"We did find a blood stained pillow and gauze in the back bedroom and brought it back for Abby to analyse. It may be Tony's," Ziva added.

"It's Tony's," Gibbs confirmed based on his earlier discussion with Doctor Maxwell.

Gibbs replayed the message Torres had left for Castillo on the burn phone and glanced at his watch. It was 2205 just twenty-five minutes before the deadline.

"Castillo has agreed to assist us but we need to get this phone to him in the safe house," Gibbs said.

"Boss, the Oakview safe house is a thirty-five minute drive, we'll never make it," McGee advised.

Ziva stepped forward, extending her hand for the cell phone.

"I will make it," she said, holding the keys to an agency vehicle in her other hand.

"I don't believe I'm saying this but…I'll go with Special Agent David," Fornell volunteered. "We'll bring Castillo back here after the call."

Gibbs nodded his head and they walked quickly for the stairs.

"I'd suggest you take the 295, then merge onto the beltway, then the 650 – should be a pretty good run to Oakview this time of night," Fornell said. "Which way do you think you're gonna drive?"

"The Israeli way," Ziva replied with a wink as Fornell paled and they entered the stairwell.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

True to her word Ziva and a shaken but not stirred Fornell arrived at the Oakview safe house in twenty minutes. They briefed Castillo and coached him what to say when he returned the call. They gave him the burn phone and watched anxiously as he dialled the number.

"Torres? It's me, Castillo."

"Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you for hours!" Torres barked into his cell.

"You know that all cells are banned when we work in the factory! I left it in my locker and called you as soon as I got your message."

"You better not be screwing with me, Joe, or that pretty daughter of yours won't stay pretty."

"Please, I'm telling you the truth…leave my daughter alone, she's a good girl!" Castillo replied, the desperation evident in his voice.

"Where are you?" Torres demanded.

"At the factory. I'm working a split shift and I'm on a break."

"I need to arrange another shipment for tomorrow," Torres said.

"Tomorrow? That's such short notice!"

"Why the hell do you think I've been trying to contact you? I need the manifest and serial numbers tonight, you can send it to the usual email address."

"There was a…a glitch in one of our deliveries this morning," Castillo said. "I'm due to make a delivery to our Pax River warehouse at 1pm. Does that give you enough time?"

"What's the delivery?"

"RPG-7's, M-67 grenades and M-16's – six crates of each."

"They'll authorise you transporting that much ordnance by yourself?" Torres questioned.

"Normally, no. But Jack Corbin is attending a conference in Geneva. As foreman, I can authorise the shipment myself."

"Perfect, I'll expect your email within the hour and I'll call you tomorrow with the delivery address."

"Fine," Castillo said reluctantly.

"Don't let me down, Joe," Torres said menacingly. "If you want to keep your daughter safe, don't let me down."

The call ended with a resounding click and Castillo breathed a sigh of relief.

"You did very well, Mr Castillo," Ziva said, straightening from where she'd been leaning in close to hear both sides of the phone conversation. "We are very grateful for your cooperation."

"I just want this over," Castillo said. "I'll do anything I can to stop those men from hurting my daughter or anyone else."

He opened the door to the bedroom assigned to his daughter. They spoke quietly for a few moments and Anna's soft cries could be heard as she wrapped her arms around her father's neck and hugged him tightly.

"I love you, Dad," she said, as he walked to the door.

"Yo también te quiero, pequeña," he replied, closing the door behind him.

"Mr Castillo," Fornell said. "Four federal agents have been assigned to protect your daughter. One will remain inside the house and three will patrol the outside until this is over…I have a daughter of my own…I can assure you, Anna will be perfectly safe here."

"This way, Mr Castillo," Ziva says, guiding him toward the door. "I have a wonderful colleague of the Gothic persuasion who can assist you to falsify and send your email."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Ziva and Fornell returned to the Navy Yard with Castillo. Much to Fornell's dismay the return trip was only marginally slower than their initial trip. Gibbs met them at the elevator and took Castillo to Abby's lab where they compiled a fake manifest of M-16's M-67's and RPG-7's, complete with a list of serial numbers and emailed them to Torres' free email account.

As Gibbs watched the two working on the list, he genuinely felt for the hard-working man who had recently buried his wife and was now tangled up with a dangerous gunrunning syndicate threatening to kill his only daughter. Having sent the email they returned to the bullpen and took their seats.

"We need to know the warehouse Torres will use for tomorrow's shipment?" Gibbs asked. "McGee?"

McGee pressed a button on the remote and a map appeared on the large plasma screen.

"Mr Castillo gave us the addresses of five different warehouses where he has delivered shipments for Torres," McGee said.

He pressed another button and large red circles appeared indicating the location of the warehouses. "As you can see, the warehouses were located at Ravensworth, Fairfax, Burke, West Springfield and Springfield. In just three months, Mr Castillo made 18 deliveries to these five locations but it appears the warehouses were chosen at random and there's no established pattern."

"After the debacle you people made of the Ravensworth surveillance, Torres isn't likely to go back there," Caldwell said smugly.

Gibbs had almost forgotten the senior FBI agent had been lurking in the background and he bit back an acerbic retort.

"The Fairfax warehouse burnt down," Morrison added. "That leaves three."

"Springfield, Burke and West Springfield," Fornell said turning to Castillo. "Any ideas."

"Torres did not like the Springfield warehouse," Castillo replied. "He complained it was too small and the surrounding area too busy. I only delivered there once."

"So...we can discount the Springfield warehouse?" Fornell asked.

"Yes," Castillo replied. "I don't think Torres would go there."

"That leaves Burke and West Springfield," Ziva said. "Both locations are very close, yes?"

"Actually, all three of the remaining warehouses are within ten minutes drive of each other," McGee stated.

"Less, depending on who's driving," Fornell added, looking pointedly at Ziva.

"I have made more deliveries to the Burke warehouse than any of the others," Castillo said.

"Torres must feel comfortable there," Fornell offered.

"We'll split up," Gibbs said. "Ziva and I will cover the Burke warehouse. Morrison, you're with McGee at West Springfield. I'll speak to the director about additional back-up."

"That won't be necessary, Gibbs," Caldwell added. "As this is a _shared_ investigation, the FBI will provide additional teams – Agent Fornell and I will ride with you."

Gibbs hesitated for a moment. As much as he detested the man, having Caldwell where he could see him might not be a bad idea. He nodded his agreement before adding.

"Just another two agents, Caldwell. We don't want the 7th cavalry riding in and spooking these guys."

"Agreed," Caldwell responded. "I'll have two good men here by morning."

Gibbs turned to Castillo.

"Torres and his men usually prepare the weapons elsewhere, then arrive at the warehouse approximately thirty minutes before your scheduled arrival, right?"

"That is right," Castillo added. "Just enough time to unload their fake shipment."

"So if they're not expecting you until zero nine hundred, they probably won't get there themselves before, say, zero eight-thirty," Morrison speculated.

"How you wanna play this, Boss?" McGee asked.

"Each of the two teams will take-up their positions at their assigned warehouse and wait for Torres to notify Castillo of the delivery address."

"What if Torres has someone watching for the delivery truck to leave COL?" Morrison asked.

"Mr Castillo's agreed to drive the truck out of the factory," Fornell answered. "He'll take the call from Torres and relay the address to us via a com-link. He'll keep driving toward the location in case he's being tailed."

"These warehouses are only 10 minutes apart, if the shipment is coming to your warehouse, you sit tight," Gibbs stressed, purposely catching Morrison's eye. "Your back-up will arrive before Torres realises Castillo's not coming."

"Then we take them?" Morrison asked, failing miserably to suppress his enthusiasm.

"_Then_ you stay with your partner, keep your head down and wait for my orders! You got that Special Agent Morrison?" Gibbs said gruffly.

"Yes, Agent Gibbs," Morrison replied, bowing his head slightly and accepting the reproof.

"Good!" he growled. "Go home, all of you. Briefing tomorrow at zero seven hundred."

As the FBI agents made their way to the elevator, Ziva and Morrison returned Castillo to the safe house for the rest of the night. Gibbs watched Morrison leave and glanced across the bullpen to where McGee was still tidying his desk and powering down his computers.

"McGee," he said hesitantly. "Say the word and I'll take Morrison with me tomorrow and put Ziva with you"

"You mean, do I trust Aaron after what happened last time?" McGee asked, rubbing a hand over his bruised jaw without conscious thought.

Gibbs gave a small shrug. "Could've both been killed."

"I know that, Boss, but I took Aaron for coffee and we had a long talk about that. He knows he screwed up and he's keen for a chance to make it right," McGee said, squaring his shoulders. "I'm his senior field agent – for now, anyway – I'd like to give him that chance and…and I think I can teach him a few things along the way."

Gibbs allowed a half grin. "Go, on," he said, satisfied that McGee had the matter covered. "Get outta here!"

"Night, Boss."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Torres sat on a large empty crate in the loading zone of the warehouse and drew the last lungful of smoke from his cigarette before angrily stubbing out the butt. Earlier that night, Vargas had not followed his orders and had been killed by the police in a shoot out. He had warned Lopez of the danger of using criminals rather than professional mercenaries who followed orders and got the job done. Mercenaries usually had military training and brought a different skill set to the job. If he had been given a team of mercenaries, there would be no need for him to be molly-coddling a weapons specialist whose brain was so addled he didn't know what day it was.

The number of men under his command was dropping alarmingly forcing Torres to change his plans. Rather than assembling their weapons at one location and arranging the exchange at another, Torres had ordered his men to a warehouse, intending to have them work through the night. They'd assemble the weapons tonight and arrange the exchange here in the morning. With Matt Lopez looking for his blood, he needed to keep a tighter rein on the whereabouts and actions of his crew.

This warehouse wasn't as large as the others they had used and the storage area was cluttered with rows of stacked crates of all sizes, causing every sound to reverberate within. Rectangular in shape, it featured a loading bay area that ran down the length on one side.

Despite it's smaller size and the busier location, the warehouse had better facilities for them to stay overnight. Positioned at the front end, were two unfurnished offices where Torres' men had placed their bedrolls and duffles. A small kitchen and locker room with shower facilities adjoined.

To the rear of the building – somewhat sheltered from the noise and the activity – a smaller office and another small bathroom were situated. Nearly three hours ago, two of Torres' men had assisted an unresisting and almost insensible Gus Bricker to the small, disused office.

The exertion of his earlier sojourn with Torres through the soaking rain had seemingly drained Gus of any remaining strength. There'd just been time enough to remove his saturated jacket before he lapsed into unconsciousness and they wrestled him onto the small couch. His head was canted at an angle guaranteed to cause a stiff neck and his hair and clothes were still damp from the rain.

Torres had periodically entered the office to check on the ailing weapons specialist. Each time he had found him either still unconscious or sleeping deeply, his long limbs hanging almost comically over the end of the much shorter couch. This time, however, the frantic movement of his eyes, under purplish lids signalled he was once again caught in fitful, restless dreams. As Torres left the office to attend to his men, he knew that Bricker would be waking shortly.

_He was reading blueprints and committing every detail to memory - the schematics, circuitry layout, specifications of the floor plans, power supply and back-up generator. He studied them meticulously with a trained eye, lookiing for flaws and weaknesses in the security system. _

_A burst of blinding light and the scene changed to a secured room with a dozen monitors housed in one wall. Each monitor displayed multiple angles of the large warehouse facility. He watched the arrival and departure of the security guards, noting the way they lingered and chatted during the change of shifts. More often than not, during each change of shift, the foot patrols within the facility lapsed for up to 30 minutes._

_Another burst of light brought another change of scene and now he was scanning inventory lists, manifests and delivery receipts. He watched with a critical eye as every truck checked in and out of the security checkpoint. He caught a flash of the company name featured on many of the documents. Corbin Ordnance Limited, Patuxent River._

He gasped loudly, sitting up so quickly the room spun wildly and he threw his hands out to steady himself. With the light in the office switched off, it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands, moving his thumbs in a circular motion to ease the pressure from his head and neck.

The dream disturbed him greatly - although it had resolved his earlier nagging recollection of COL it provided more questions than answers. What was he doing there? Casing? Reconnoitring? He was a gunrunner and a weapons specialist - he moved and appraised the merchandise stolen by others for a tidy sum. He had never been involved in planning the actual robberies, that wasn't his field of expertise – yet the dream told him otherwise.

He was confused and frustrated and each time he felt he was making some headway with his hazy and disjointed memories they drifted further out of his reach or disappeared completely. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and moved to the desk in the corner of the room. He opened and closed the desk drawers until he found the paper and pencils he sought then seated himself and began to draw.

He stared in confused amazement as his hand, seemingly of its own volition, moved with considerable dexterity over the scattered sheets of paper. Twenty minutes later, he put down his pencil and gazed in astonishment at the security and building layouts of COL Patuxent River – all detailed and sketched to scale with an artistry and proficiency he didn't know he possessed.

He held his trembling hands, palms up, in front of his face and studied his long fingers. He tried desperately to remember ever having had the ability to sketch so skilfully but was forced to stop when a shaft of pain seared through his head, aggravating every nerve ending. He closed his eyes and cursed vehemently, breathing through the pain that assailed him each time he tried to rid himself of the gaps and inconsistencies in his memory. Slowly the agony subsided, leaving his head throbbing sickeningly and a residual weakness in every muscle of his body. He wondered, fleetingly, if he had the strength to complete the job - he quickly dismissed the thought, knowing that his expertise was the only reason Torres was keeping him alive.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Gunny?"

"Skipper. You get anything for me?"

"About the same amount of co-operation from the CIA as you did."

"That bad?"

"Afraid so but one thing we know for sure, something's brewing over there – the CIA have greatly increased their presence in Central America. They're building up for something, that's for sure."

"You know where in Central America?"

"According to my source - the border of Honduras and El Salvador."

"Appreciate your help, Skipper. You'll let me know if you hear anything more?"

"Of course."

"Old times, Skipper."

"Old times, Gunny."

Gibbs disconnected the call and thumbed through his contact list for Trent Kort's number. Once again, the call immediately went to voicemail and Gibbs left another brief but insistent message for Kort to call. His gut was telling him that the CIA had information crucial to this case. Vance had tried the proper channels but the CIA had stonewalled him, denying all knowledge of illegal gunrunning in El Salvador. It irked him that he must now rely on Kort, who had no love for Tony, to provide the intel that could wrap up this case and, more importantly, bring his agent safely home.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Light flooded the room and Gus hissed and lifted his hand to protect his eyes against it. Two men entered bringing with them, sounds from the outside that, until now, Gus had been only vaguely aware of - heavy boxes being lifted and dragged and multiple male voices were extinguished by a thunderous, jolting discharge of a pneumatic press.

"See Miguel," Torres said, using his chin to point to Bricker. "I told you the press was loud enough to wake the dead."

"Very funny," Gus muttered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as his headache intensified. "What the hell's that noise?"

"The men are just setting up the press, we'll need it later for the serial numbers."

"Where are we?"

"You don't remember?"

"Last thing I remember is…you hot wiring a car and something about…_my wife_!" Gus' eyes flashed open in alarm. "Please don't tell me we're in Vegas, I got hammered and married a topless dancer."

Alvaro laughed aloud as he placed a bottle of water and a plastic wrapped sandwich on the desk beside him. "Hey! She gotta sister in the same line of work, man?"

Bricker nodded his thanks for the food despite having no appetite to eat it.

"We have a shipment coming tomorrow, remember?" Torres prompted impatiently. "Six crates of M-67's, RPG-7's and M-16's? We're gonna have to work through the night and I need you out there to oversee the process."

Grabbing the desk with both hands, Gus pulled himself to his feet, wincing as the pneumatic press fired again and the sound pierced his skull.

"We'll stop the press for now - put the serial numbers on last," Torres said, willing to do anything to keep Bricker on his feet and able to complete this job.

Alvaro looked closely at the drawings Bricker has just completed and handed them to Torres.

"These are blueprints to COL Pax River! Where'd you get these, man?" Torres asked.

"I just…I just kinda...drew them," Bricker replied.

Torres' eyebrows raised to meet his hairline. "You drew them?"

Gus nodded. "I…I'm not really sure but I think I must have done some reconnoitring for someone."

"Who?"

"I don't remember."

Torres looked at the detail in the drawings. "You remember enough to know where the security cameras are placed and the location of the photo electric sensors but you can't remember who hired you to scope the place?"

"I'm telling you, man, I don't even remember setting foot on the place."

"Then how do you explain these?" Torres asked waving the drawings in the air.

"_I can't_," Gus answered tersely. "I've been sitting here for the last 30 minutes trying to remember how the hell I know this stuff but I _just don't know_."

"Carlos, the boss would kill to get his hands on these," Alvaro said.

'_The boss_.' Gus tried to snag the stray thoughts that skimmed through his mind each time he heard those words but they quickly moved beyond his grasp.

"The boss would kill all right, he'll kill us if we don't get _this_ job done," Torres said, folding the plans and placing the back on the desk. "Miguel, I want you to stay with Bricker tonight."

"I'm fine," Gus protested.

"If you think he needs a break, make sure he has one," Torres continued. "And keep the men working hard, there'll be a bonus paid to all if we get this done right."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Having updated the director, Gibbs checked in with Ziva who assured him that Joe Castillo had been reunited with his daughter at the safe house and would co-operate fully in the morning. He returned to his desk, knowing he should go home and grab a few hours sleep before the briefing at zero seven hundred but he couldn't bring himself to leave. The thought of sleeping while his senior field agent was missing and seriously injured went against everything he stood for. There'd be plenty of time for rest when they had Tony safely back among them.

He completed the overdue reports in his inbox and re-read many of the case reports, looking for any shred of evidence they could use to tie Matteo Lopez into this. His growling stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast. With his knees protesting from sitting for too long, he walked gingerly to Tony's desk and opened the bottom drawer in search of Tony's food stash.

Moving aside the snow bunny edition of GSM, the slinky and the back-scratcher, his eyebrows shot up as he held the fluffy handcuffs for closer inspection. A tiny smile ghosted across his lips as he tossed the cuffs back into the drawer and uncovered Tony's hidden treasures. He helped himself to the Snickers bar and a clowny cake and as he moved to close the drawer, something else caught his eye.

He glanced around the empty operations room, eerily quiet in the subdued night lighting, and reached his hand back into the drawer. Surreptitiously looking around again he looped the string over his finger, rolled his wrist and watched the brightly coloured yo-yo as it travelled the length of its string and obediently climbed back into his hand. He shook his head and allowed another smile as he sent the yo-yo on its way again.

"Can you do Rock-the-Baby?" Abby asked from somewhere in the darkness.

He started at the sound of her voice causing the yo-yo to lose its rhythm and hang limply at the end of the string.

"Geez, Abs!" Gibbs exclaimed, way past embarrassed and working on mortified.

"It's okay, Gibbs," she said quietly, sidling up to the lead agent and leaning her head against his shoulder. "I miss him, too!"

He pulled her into a quick embrace and placed a chaste kiss on the top of her bowed head.

"Make you a deal," he said. "Keep quiet about the yo-yo and I'll split a clowny cake with you and teach you how to Walk-the-Dog."

"Make it the Snickers bar and Around-the-World and you've got a deal," Abby said with a sad smile.

"We'll get him back, Abs," Gibbs promised. "We'll get him back."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**Thank you, so much, for reading and for your kind support as we build up, once again for more ****action, drama and angst in the next chapter. Hope you'll join me, L**


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N REMINDER Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. In any scene where Tony is present, he will be referred to as Gus Bricker. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 19**

"Twenty minute break!" Torres yelled, watching as the men under his "command" downed tools and headed to the break room or outside to stretch their legs. He had to admit that they had made good time – they had worked through the night assembling grenades, M-16 rifles and RPG-7's.

Even though they were short one weapons specialist, Bricker had done well overseeing the assembly and checking that the weapons would pass the scrutiny of the US Marines. It was now 4:15am and all that remained to do was to use the pneumatic press to place the serial numbers onto the weapons. The men could manage that without Bricker's supervision.

As much as it irked him that his and Bricker's lives were, at this point, effectively linked, Torres had to give the guy credit – he knew his stuff and he had worked himself to a standstill. Torres was highly proficient and deadly accurate with a handgun but when it came to light weapons and explosive ordnance, he was completely out of his depth.

Bricker was totally wiped out and looked as if he was unaware that a break had been called. Remembering the doctor's warning about overexertion, Torres needed to get Bricker to rest. If Lopez demanded another job, he would need the weapons specialist to be on his feet and ready.

Gus was seated on a small packing crate with his back leaning heavily against a wall as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. His eyelids were at half-mast and his body trembled with pain and fatigue as his memory teased him with more fleeting flashbacks.

_A very familiar silver-haired, federal agent, sat across from him in yet another interrogation room. "Well, we've been here before, haven't we, Toby? You were saying some pretty bad stuff about me back then. I hope you've learned a few things since then…I know I have."_ _"The way to the international arms dealer is through his daughter – no-one knew that better than you." "Your right Agent Fornell, I'm lying! It's a cacophony of lies really." _

_Blinding light sent shards of pain lancing through his head and he saw himself back in prison overalls. "I just killed a guy back there and I am not getting caught! Let's get up and run! Let's go!" "I don't wanna live in a cage."_

"Bricker! Hey, Bricker!" Torres repeated as he reached forward and firmly shook the man's shoulder.

Abruptly shaken from the images, Bricker's reaction was lightning fast as he struck out with his right hand and grasped Torres in a thumb lock.

"Hey! Hey! Snap out of it, man, you're gonna break my thumb!" Torres yelled.

He watched with great relief as the wild look in the other man's eyes instantly morphed to a flicker of recognition and he released his hold. Breathing heavily, Bricker looked around as if trying to get his bearings before leaning heavily again on the wall and closing his eyes.

Torres flexed his thumb gingerly. "You know martial arts, man?"

Bricker shook his head and grimaced as his pounding headache rose in intensity.

"A few moves…someone…someone taught me a few moves."

_The image of a dark-haired woman with an exotic middle-eastern beauty, standing in front of him on a training mat, streaked across his mind too quickly for him to grasp its meaning._

He crushed his fists against his temples as the pain flared again.

"The men will be firing up the pneumatic press in a few minutes," Torres said. "It's gonna be loud. You need to get outta here and take your pain meds. Can you walk?"

Bricker eased himself off the crate and stood swaying precariously on rubbery legs.

"I can walk," he whispered.

Torres placed an arm around the other man's waist to take some of his weight and brushed against the cold steel of the Beretta still tucked into the small of Bricker's back.

"What are you trying to do, man? Shoot your own ass off?" he said, assisting a staggering Bricker to the small couch in the office and placing the Beretta on the corner of the adjacent desk. "There's a few hours before the shipment arrives, get some sleep. I'll wake you when it gets here."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs led the briefing as the director cast discerning eyes over the eight agents present. As is usual in these situations, the atmosphere was pulsating with tension and anticipation but Vance was far too perceptive to miss the friction building between his agents and the agents from the FBI.

Some of the discord was borne from inter-agency rivalry and the fact that NCIS was taking point on this particular operation. Despite this, Vance had no doubt that these agents were professional and experienced enough to work together. However, it was the accusations casually tossed about by Senior FBI agent, Larry Caldwell that raised the animosity levels to near breaking point. To his credit, Fornell had played the role of mediator between the two teams and had, thus far, kept Caldwell and Gibbs from coming to blows.

They had determined from Castillo that the Burke warehouse was the most likely location for the weapons exchange, although they would not know for certain until Torres called Castillo and advised the address. Gibbs, Ziva, Caldwell and Fornell would take their positions around the Burke warehouse, while McGee, Morrison and FBI agents Higgins and Cole would do likewise at the West Springfield warehouse.

As these warehouses were within ten minutes drive of each other, when confirmation of the location for the exchange was received from Castillo, the team at the wrong location would join the others as quickly as possible.

FBI agent Cole spoke up. "Who will be watching the third warehouse at Springfield?"

"There has only been one weapons exchange there in three months and Torres has voiced his dislike of the position of that warehouse. The Springfield location has been deemed the least likely to be used," Fornell responded.

"Any other questions?" Vance asked.

"No questions," Caldwell replied. "But I'd like it noted for the record that I believe the FBI should take point on this operation." Caldwell said.

"What a surprise," Gibbs drawled.

"This is highly irregular, Director," Caldwell replied. "Standard protocol dictates that when an agent is under investigation, any operation in which he is involved must be controlled by a neutral agency."

"I assume you're referring to Special Agent DiNozzo? I wasn't aware he was under investigation," Vance countered. "Unless the FBI is now conducting unsanctioned witch-hunts?"

In his peripheral vision, he saw the muscles tighten in Gibbs' jaw as the senior agent fought to restrain his fury but Caldwell's silence was all the answer Vance required.

"Until I hear otherwise – from someone a hell of a lot more senior than you, Caldwell – Special Agent DiNozzo is _not_ under investigation by the FBI or anyone else," Vance's voice was calm but his eyes flashed with acrimony. "I should not have to remind any of you that we have an undercover federal agent at the scene and you are to exercise extreme caution. Do I make myself clear?"

Various acknowledgements sounded from around the room and Vance fixed a penetrating glare on Caldwell until the senior agent was forced to reluctantly acknowledge him.

"Good luck," Vance said, sending a silent prayer heavenward as he watched as the agents gather their weapons and leave the building.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs, Ziva, Caldwell and Fornell donned their Kevlar's and communication equipment, then pocketed additional ammunition before leaving their sedan parked fifty yards further down the road. Quickly making their way to the Burke warehouse on foot, they each found cover in separate vantage spots adjacent to or facing the loading dock.

"Status report, team one," Gibbs spoke quietly into his com-link. "Fornell."

"In position," came Fornell's quick reply.

"Caldwell."

"Standing by."

"Ziva."

"I am ready."

"Any sign of movement?" Gibbs asked, receiving three negative replies.

Gibbs checked his watch, noting that it would soon be time for Castillo to leave the COL site. He wasn't sure what it was but something didn't feel right and Gibbs gut constricted painfully.

"Team two, status report," Gibbs said.

"No movement from within the warehouse, Boss, agents are in position and awaiting further instruction," McGee replied from his position behind an abandoned box trailer at the West Springfield location.

"Hold your positions and stand-by."

"Roger that, standing by."

A multitude of possible scenarios rushed through Gibbs' mind. As he waited for Castillo to confirm the delivery address, he ruthlessly pushed any negative thoughts from his mind. First and foremost he needed to secure the scene and get Tony the hell out of there and to a hospital - God help Caldwell if he tried to get in his way. The director had EMT units standing by, within a minute of each location.

He started slightly when the static crackled through his earwig and Castillo's panicked voice sounded.

"Gibbs, this is Castillo. Torres has arranged the exchange at the Springfield warehouse. Repeat. The exchange will be at the Springfield warehouse!"

"Dammit!" Gibbs cursed as he headed for the agency vehicle at a dead run. He didn't have to look to know that the other three agents were doing likewise. "McGee, you get that?"

"Got it," McGee panted through his com-link as he replied on the run. "We have left our positions and are heading to the Springfield location."

'You get there first, you find cover and hold your positions until we arrive. You copy that?"

"Roger, that, Boss."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Torres flicked his cell closed and sighed with relief for the first time in two days. The substitute ordnance was assembled and the serial numbers and manufacturer's marks were stamped to match the COL products. His men had moved the goods closer to the large roller doors of the loading dock to expedite the exchange of goods when Castillo arrived with the genuine articles. Everything was going according to plan and it was looking like this exchange would go off without a hitch – with the exception of the deterioration of his weapons specialist.

In the small, darkened office, Bricker was dreaming, his eyes moving rapidly under their lids. Sleep had become his arch nemesis - constantly casting fragments of disjointed images at him. They appeared in his dreams, tormenting and mocking him until their meaning lay just beyond the reach of his outstretched fingertips then, infuriatingly; they dissipated as his consciousness returned.

_Striking blue eyes met his. "Where were you last night?" "Drinking" "You alone?" "Of course not! What were we talking about?" "Your alibi." "My alibi for what?" _"_And to think I almost made it a whole year without being accused of murder." _

_Suddenly he was back in prison garb, standing in the middle of a wooded area and handcuffed to another man. "I didn't do anything, let's get that crystal clear. I was looking at twenty-five to life and I wasn't gonna let that happen." A dangerous looking man eyed him disturbingly. "You don't strike me as the type to kill a man." "Sorry to disappoint you."_

Torres opened the office door, just barely making out Bricker's form, sprawled over the couch and unmoved since he'd taken his meds several hours ago. Though he neither liked nor disliked the man, he knew he was crucial to any future weapons dealings – he needed to ensure Bricker survived and, at the moment, things were not looking too bright on that front. With Castillo on the way, Torres knew he'd have to get the weapons specialist on his feet soon – the problem was keeping him that way. Snatching another doctor was obviously out of the question but, perhaps, Lopez had a doctor on his payroll that could keep Bricker conscious for more than a few hours at a time - at least until he'd served his purpose and was no longer of any value.

**00-oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Despite the fact that McGee's team had a shorter distance to travel, Gibbs had been confident of arriving before him – unfortunately a multi-vehicle traffic accident on the VA-620 E put paid to those plans and drew a string of muttered curses from the former Marine. Three of four lanes had been closed and the traffic had become gridlocked.

Caldwell and Fornell exchanged a startled glance as Gibbs swung the sedan into a tight u-turn and started back the way they had come – he swerved the vehicle sharply in and out of the oncoming traffic, the angry motorists sounding their car horns in protest as the NCIS sedan continued in the wrong direction. Exiting the VA 620- E, Gibbs stepped on the gas to make up lost time on the back roads and spoke into his com-link.

"McGee, what's your status?"

"We have arrived at the Springfield warehouse and are moving into position," McGee replied in a hushed voice.

"Can you confirm Torres' team are there?" Fornell asked.

"We have not sighted Torres yet. There's a truck parked in the loading dock matching the description of the one seen leaving the Fairfax warehouse after the explosion and there is definite activity within the warehouse."

"McGee, we've been delayed and had to backtrack. ETA is twelve minutes. Hold your positions until we arrive," Gibbs stressed.

"Roger that, holding position."

McGee's team had approached the warehouse from the south and were facing the loading dock that stretched the length of the rectangular building. There was a small fire exit located on the far north side and the placement of windows suggested that offices were positioned at either end. The large green truck and two sedans were parked in the loading area.

McGee looked around to ensure his team was out of the line of sight of the warehouse occupants. Craning his neck to the right, he could just see Higgins, crouched behind a demountable building. He turned quickly to his left and breathed a sigh of relief to find Morrison taking cover and holding his position behind a large dumpster. The young probational agent flashed a large grin and gave him the thumbs up. He shook his head at Morrison's obvious nervous excitement, marvelling once again at the DiNozzo-like attributes and half-expecting him to launch into Tony's favourite Tommy Lee Jones speech. Cole was forward of McGee's position, crouched behind some large packing crates.

The large roller-door on the loading dock opened slowly with a loud and painful groan, attracting McGee's attention. He took particular notice of the crates positioned close to the dock for faster loading and saw several men walking back and forth.

"Higgins," he said. "I count four men, no sign of Torres or DiNozzo. What's your count? Higgins?"

He gasped audibly then held his breath as he saw Higgins running at a crouch across an open expanse to the east side of the warehouse, where he then ducked beneath the windows.

"Higgins!" he hissed. "Stand down, repeat. Stand down!"

"Sorry, McGee, you have your orders and we have ours," Higgins panted.

"McGee!" Morrison sounded alarmed and McGee turned back in time to see Cole running for the west side of the warehouse. Both men then disappeared from his line of sight.

"McGee, status report!" Gibbs ordered.

"Boss, we've got a problem. Looks like the FBI agents are going to try to enter the building from the rear."

"Call them off!" Gibbs hissed at the senior FBI agents in the back seat. "Dammit, I have an injured undercover agent in there, _call them off!"_

Caldwell remained silent and crossed his arms defiantly.

"Cole, Higgins, this is Fornell, you are ordered to stand down immediately, do you copy? Stand down immediately!"

"Sorry, Tobias," Caldwell said smugly. "I was appointed _sole_ lead agent effective from zero six hundred this morning. Those men are operating under my orders."

"I wasn't informed of that," Fornell replied furiously.

"Perhaps if you attended FBI meetings instead of hanging with your NCIS buddies, you'd be up to date with what's going on," Caldwell sniped.

The unmistakeable click of a safety being released from a handgun sounded from the front passenger seat as Ziva twisted her body toward Caldwell. Before she could raise her weapon in his direction, Gibbs grabbed her arm and shook his head sharply. The intention was not lost on Caldwell, who paled visibly.

"Call them off, Caldwell, now!" Gibbs snarled.

"They're not going to engage," Caldwell countered. "They are merely taking their positions at the rear of the building until we get there."

"And if they get spotted beforehand they'll be outnumbered two to one - call them off!"

"Do it, Larry," Fornell urged.

Reluctantly, Caldwell opened his mouth to give the order when the sound of hell breaking loose, sounded through their earwigs.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Torres was pacing anxiously. Despite the strong medication and four hours rest, Bricker was still in a bad way. Torres knew he'd pushed the badly injured man too hard without a break but with Lopez breathing down his neck, he couldn't afford any slip-ups. With the shipment due to arrive at any minute, he had to wake the weapons specialist. The man's pallor was ghostly and a fine sheen of perspiration covered his face. His brow furrowed deeply even in sleep, a certain indication that the intense headache had not completely subsided.

'_Where the hell is Castillo?' _he thought.

Leaving Bricker to rest a few moments longer, he stepped outside the office and walked to the loading dock at the front of the building. He had hoped to see the COL truck moving into position but it still had not arrived. He flipped his cell open and pressed Castillo's number on the speed dial. The call hadn't even connected before he heard one of his men yelling from the rear of the building.

"¡Agentes Federales! ¡Agentes Federales!"

Sounds of staccato gunfire interspersed with shouting filled the air as pandemonium erupted all around him and Torres heard the shouted words that made his blood run cold.

"FBI, drop your weapons!"

More gunfire rang out and Torres' immediate thought was to save the shipment. Looking around, he took stock of his surroundings. Four of his men had taken cover by the roller door, their guns already drawn. His peripheral vision detected movement at the front of the building as McGee left his position and joined Morrison behind the dumpster. Torres ordered two of his men to pin them down with gunfire while the other two men re-loaded the weapons back onto the truck. Once the truck was loaded, they were to drive it back to their base.

Leaving his men to deal with the feds, he drew his weapon, stealthily threaded his way between the mazes of stacked packing crates and returned to the office.

Roused slightly by the sound of gunfire, Bricker was now seated on the couch, his glazed eyes blinking rapidly and his head lolling involuntarily as he battled the insistent pull of the painkillers and tried to force himself into full consciousness.

"On your feet, we've gotta get outta here," Torres ordered.

Taking two fists full of Bricker's shirt, Torres hauled the man to his feet, cursing when his legs folded and nearly pitched them both to the floor.

"Come on, man, stand up!" Torres growled.

" 'm try..trying," Bricker mumbled.

Supporting most of the other man's weight, Torres reached for the Beretta on the desk and placed it in Bricker's hand.

"Take your gun," he said, cursing as the weapon slipped from the weak grasp and thudded loudly on the floor. He caught the weapons specialist as his knees buckled and his eyes rolled back in his head in a dead faint. A string of curses burst forth as he guided Bricker's descent onto the couch.

"Bricker!" Torres hissed, slapping his gloved fingers firmly against the other man's face. Realising he had no choice but to leave the unconscious man where he was, he snatched up the Beretta and headed back into the fray.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

McGee and Morrison heard the roar of the truck's engine seconds before it burst into life and sped away from the loading dock. Unable to get a clear shot at the truck McGee quickly turned his attention back to the two men firing indiscriminately at the dumpster. The sound of bullets ricocheting from the steel dumpster reverberated in his skull as he waited for the men to empty their clips. When the temporary lull arrived, the agents grasped their opportunity and opened fire, hitting one man multiple times in the chest as the other ran deeper into the warehouse.

Holding his weapon before him in a two-handed grip, McGee scanned the warehouse in a controlled arc and, seeing no sign of Torres' men, signalled for Morrison to follow him to the left of the loading dock. The sound of shouting and intermittent gunfire told him that the FBI agents were in deep trouble near the rear of the building.

"I'm going in," McGee told Morrison. "Wait here for Gibbs, tell him I…"

"Forget it," Morrison shot back.

"What?"

"You think I'm gonna stay here while you go in there? We're partners. I've got your back and you've got mine, right?" He said, recalling Gibbs' feelings about teamwork.

McGee saw the determined look in the younger man's eyes and knew there'd be no talking him down.

"I won't let you down, Tim," the young man said determinedly.

"You stay right where I can see you," McGee said. "We clear, Probie?"

"Crystal," Morrison replied with a familiar cocky grin.

"Let's go," McGee said, as they cautiously entered the front of the warehouse.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The senior FBI agents in the back seat clung furiously to their respective safety handles as Gibbs intentionally fishtailed the agency sedan around a tight bend, shaving precious seconds off their journey.

Although they could hear the gun-battle and shouting through their earwigs, they had lost communication with their agents who were, undoubtedly, too busy to respond. Gibbs refused to think of any other possibility for the loss of communication.

"The director has EMT's standing by. Ducky and Palmer are on their way and another team has been dispatched to assist with processing the scene," Ziva reported.

Gibbs nodded, his eyes never leaving the road as he overtook a slow moving vehicle. His gut clenched tightly as he realised they were still six minutes from the warehouse.

"Keep trying to reach McGee," he told Ziva.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Torres stepped silently through the maze of packing crates toward the sound of gunfire. Chancing a look over the top of a crate, a feral grin appeared on his face as he found himself directly behind FBI Agent Higgins. Without hesitation, he levelled the Beretta and squeezed off three successive rounds. Higgins grunted loudly as two rounds impacted with great force high into the Kevlar protecting his back. Less than a second later, he crumpled soundlessly to the floor as the third bullet found its mark, skimming the top edge of the body armour. Torres smiled coldly, acknowledging his expert marksmanship.

Miguel Alvaro poked his head from behind the large crate where the FBI agent had pinned him down. He nodded his thanks to Torres as three shots sounded from deeper in the building. Torres signalled for Alvaro to check it out and he nodded his understanding and moved off as Torres started back for Bricker.

With a quick glance to ensure Morrison was sticking close by, McGee kicked the gun from the lax fingers of the fallen man. Although he was certain his three rounds had killed him, he leaned over to feel for a pulse. As he rose to his feet he caught movement from the corner of his eye. His heart stopped as he saw a gun barrel pointing directly at him.

The gunshot rent the air and his chest exploded in pain as he was forcibly knocked from his feet and slammed into the floor. Pain coursed through his upper torso, pulling the air from his lungs and a heavy weight made it almost impossible to breathe. McGee recoiled in horror as he recognised his young partner sprawled on top of him, his eyes staring lifelessly as blood flowed from a mortal neck wound.

Rolling from under the young man's body, McGee swallowed the bile threatening to spill from his throat and reached out for the weapon that had slipped from his grasp. He bit back a yell as a foot stepped painfully onto his wrist. He flicked his eyes upward and found himself staring down the barrel of Miguel Alvaro's gun.

FBI Agent Cole suppressed his fear as he saw his partner gunned down in cold blood. With the exit blocked and realising he was seriously outnumbered, Cole headed to the offices at the far end of the warehouse, hoping to escape through a window and wait for back-up. Cautiously, he crept down the corridor and stopped outside the dimly lit office. He peered inside, his heart pounding painfully against his sternum. He held his weapon in both hands, his arms outstretched with the gun at eye level and started to move forward. The creaking of a loose board from somewhere close by made his blood run cold.

Spinning quickly to his right and shaping to fire, he glimpsed a man stepping from the shadows, standing some twenty feet away. The sudden wave of agony and the sound of gunfire reached him simultaneously as two slugs pierced his body just below his right armpit. Darkness claimed the agent before he hit the floor.

A sneer of satisfaction formed on Torres' face as he kicked the handgun from unmoving fingers and stepped over the prone form and into the office. He placed the Beretta on the couch beside Bricker and attempted, again, to rouse the unconscious man. Bricker's eyelids fluttered several times before finally remaining open. Torres' concern was allayed slightly when he saw more awareness in the man's eyes.

"The feds are here," Torres snapped. "On your feet, we have to go!"

He hauled Bricker to his feet again, relieved that the injured man was bearing more of his own weight.

"Can you hold this?" Torres asked, holding Bricker's Beretta before him.

Bricker gave a brief nod and grasped his gun while Torres wrapped a steadying arm around the his waist. Removing his own weapon from his holster, Torres led Bricker cautiously into the warehouse and toward the waiting vehicle. They were almost to the loading dock when Alvaro approached them.

"Carlos, the warehouse is clear," he said. "Salinas and Diaz took the weapons back to base. We lost two men, they lost three - one fed survived – what do you want us to do with him?"

Torres turned to his right, his dark eyes flashing with fury as he saw the NCIS agent - his hands bound behind his back – being held at gunpoint by Rios. Signalling for Alvaro to assist Bricker, Torres stormed toward the federal agent.

McGee schooled his expression and begged his heart to stop racing when he saw Tony's faltering approach. His relief was quickly replaced by concern at his partner's ashen appearance and his apparent inability to stand without assistance.

Without warning, Torres lashed out, driving his fist into McGee's stomach with a force that knocked the breath out of him. Bent forward at the waist, the agent coughed harshly and fought to breathe. Furtively, he glanced quickly in Tony's direction, noting the Beretta in his hand. His eyes silently willed his partner to leap into action.

"How did you find us?" Torres snarled menacingly.

Despite the pain in his abdomen, McGee drew himself to his full height and stared back defiantly.

"Last chance, man. How did you find us?"

Infuriated by the continued silence, Torres landed a fearsome blow on McGee's jaw and watched with utter contempt as the agent staggered then spat bloodied saliva from his mouth.

Again McGee looked to Tony, waiting for a signal, a wink, a nod - anything to tell him to be ready to act when the senior agent made his move.

'_Come on, Tony!'_ he thought desperately. _'You can do this!'_

Torres swung his arm lustily, backhanding the agent across the face, causing his lip to split and a thin line of blood to dribble down his chin.

Bricker's vision started to grey around the edges and his blood pumped furiously in his ears. His head was pounding; he was shaking and increasingly unaware of where he was and what was happening around him.

"Carlos," Alvaro said, adjusting his hold on Bricker as the man's legs threatened to give out again.

"We need to get him outta here, man. I'll take him to the car."

McGee chanced a final look at Tony, leaning heavily against Alvaro as he was assisted from the warehouse. His heart clenched tightly as he recalled his partner's green eyes - devoid of any expression or recognition.

Torres turned to Rios and threw him a set of car keys.

"Take the other car and meet us at the base," he said coldly. "You have five minutes with him. If he won't talk…kill him."

"And if he talks?" Rios asked.

Torres eyed McGee coldly.

"Kill him anyway."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A/N:- I know! I killed my probie! Even though he died a hero I really had a hard time killing him. I really enjoyed writing him and Ray Sanchez. Unfortunately, real life has shown us that it's not always the bad guys that get killed. Thanks for reading and for your very kind reviews, alerts and favourites. I hope you enjoyed that chapter, L


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N REMINDER Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. In any scene where Tony is present, he will be referred to as Gus Bricker. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 20**

Minutes felt like hours and for the third time McGee fell hard on his right shoulder. With his hands bound tightly behind his back he was unable to break his fall. He flexed his bruised jaw tentatively and winced at the coppery taste of his own blood. He was hauled to his feet by his hair; his head jerking back painfully as he staggered then regained his balance.

"Time's up, my friend," Rios said menacingly. He raised the weapon in his hand and pointed it at McGee's head.

The agent cast all thoughts from his mind and stared resolutely into the eyes of the man about to take his life. He lifted his chin in a final act of defiance. His body jerked and his eyes blinked reflexively as a shot rang out. The dull thump of something falling to the ground at his feet caused him to step back in alarm and open his eyes. Rios was staring unseeingly in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood. A neat bullet hole punctured his left temple while a bloodied gruesome mess represented the right.

McGee's first thought as he looked anxiously to his right, was that his senior field agent had returned to save him.

"Tony?" he called.

Ziva's slim figure stepped out of the darkness. As her dark eyes continued to cautiously scan the area for danger, she held her recently fired weapon ready for more action.

"Gibbs, I have McGee," she stated calmly into her com-link. Suppressing a strong need to go to her partner, she continued to search the warehouse for more of Torres' men.

The lead agent arrived seconds later, eyeing the younger man up and down in silent appraisal as he placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked.

He felt the tremors beneath his hand and used his knife to cut the bindings from his agent's wrists. He guided McGee to sit on a nearby crate and tilted his head back so he could examine the small split in his eyebrow.

McGee turned abruptly away as the sudden rush of bile burned the back of his throat and his stomach disgorged its contents. The adrenalin that had dulled his fear and provided his courage moments before had quickly dissipated; taking his resolve with it as his body reacted to the realisation of his close call. When the retching subsided, he turned back to Gibbs.

"Boss," McGee croaked, cleared his throat and tried again. "Boss, Aaron…"

"I know, McGee…I found him," Gibbs said quietly, his facial expression giving nothing away as he squeezed the younger man's shoulder in silent support.

Ziva returned from securing the building and spoke into her com-link. "East side of the warehouse has been secured," she said.

Fornell's voice sounded through their earwigs, advising that the west side of the warehouse was secure but they had agents down, one requiring urgent medical assistance.

Ziva looked around anxiously. "Where is Morrison?"

McGee swallowed convulsively and turned his head away.

"Didn't make it," Gibbs told her.

The Israeli gasped softly. "And Tony?" she asked anxiously.

"That's what we'd like to know," Caldwell blustered as he rounded a pile of packing crates. "Where the hell _is_ DiNozzo?"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

In its day, the building now used as Lopez' base had been a stately boarding house. Two stories high, it featured a dozen bedrooms, a grand dining room and several sitting rooms. While the bedrooms served as adequate accommodation for his men, the huge six-car garage made a perfect location for the temporary storage of weapons and ordnance. Lopez had accepted the house as partial payment of a large debt but had never bothered to change the title into his own name.

Diaz and Salinas were playing cards in the far corner of one of the sitting rooms. They quickly turned as Alvaro exited the dark adjoining room and closed the door behind him.

"Where is Carlos?" Alvaro asked.

"Outside," Diaz replied. "He had to call Señor Lopez and tell him what happened."

"Better him than us, eh?" Alvaro laughed nervously as he took a seat at the table. "Deal me in next hand."

Fifteen minutes later Torres returned to the sitting room, brimming with anger and his body language intimidating.

"Where is Bricker?" he asked curtly.

His dark eyes tracked the other man's arm as Alvaro pointed toward the adjoining room.

"He finally stopped puking. I told him to take his meds and try to sleep for a while."

"He's more trouble than he's worth!" Torres snarled. "He's spent the best part of three days either puking or unconscious!"

"He did the work of two men overseeing the assembly of those weapons, Carlos," Alvaro said. "We could never have prepared that shipment without him. We pushed him too hard – remember what the doctor said."

"Try telling that to Lopez when he finds out we lost the real shipment."

"You didn't tell him we lost the shipment?" Alvaro asked.

"I didn't get the chance. He'd already heard about the shootings, he's coming over to find out what happened," Torres said.

"What are we gonna do?" Salinas asked. "Lopez is crazy enough to kill us all when he finds out we got stuck with the substitute weapons."

"What if he doesn't find out?" Torres suggested.

Alvaro pulled a face. "That's risky, man."

"Is it? It's not like he inspects the weapons himself. We tell him we got raided, lost a few men but managed to get the genuine shipment."

"It might work," Diaz stated.

"It has to work," Torres said. "Or we're _all_ dead."

Alvaro nodded then cocked a thumb toward the room he'd just left.

"What about Bricker? He could tell the weapons were fake in a second."

"He's so out of his head he doesn't know what's going on," Torres said. "If he blows our story we'll blame it on the concussion."

"There's more going on with him than just a concussion," Alvaro warned. "He needs a hospital or he's not gonna make it."

"That's not for us to decide," Torres stated coldly. "Besides, if Lopez says we have enough weapons, Bricker becomes expendable."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The headaches and nausea left him exhausted – craving sleep but somehow afraid to succumb to it. He'd barely closed his eyes before the first of the confusing and discordant segments came again. Crashing over him in waves, they tormented him and then retreated before he could make sense of them.

_He was seated in a wooden chair, hands bound behind his back. His vision was blurring and his veins burned as the drug they forced upon him surged through him. He fought it with every thing he had, desperate to maintain control. Everything depended on it. His eyes fell upon the still figure laying several feet from him. "When do we move?" the man said. "Not yet," he answered. "He's rattled, might be our best shot." "Not yet. Wait for my cue." Where were they? What was happening? _

_Then he was back in a prison cell. With a sudden infusion of blinding anger he stepped dangerously close to the young man standing outside the cell. "I didn't kill anyone!" he yelled before seizing the lapels of the man's jacket and pulling him painfully against the bars. "Prison changes a man," he said menacingly. Who was this man? Was he a friend, contact, accomplice or was he an enemy, an opponent? _

He sat upright and gasped for breath. Air filled his lungs and he inhaled in huge, grateful gulps until he began to feel dizzy. He closed his eyes again and pleaded with his heart to slow down and his head to stop throbbing. In desperation, he searched his mind for more pieces to the frustrating puzzle but the more he searched, the more the pain in his head became unbearable. Infuriatingly, he couldn't place the face with a name but he doubted the man was a friend. In his line of work there were no friends, just a few acquaintances and a whole lot of dangerous people looking to get what they could by whatever means necessary. People like Carlos Torres.

Gus cracked open an eye and peered around the dark and unfamiliar room, seeing his Beretta and his jacket on the small desk. He felt the pull of the painkillers he'd taken a few moments before and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. Stifling a moan as the world tilted sharply and then righted itself, he exhaled slowly, the pounding headache persisted but the dizziness passed. Hearing muffled voices from outside the room, he stood cautiously and made his way to the door when he heard Torres' raised voice.

"_He's more trouble than he's worth! He's spent the best part of three days either puking or unconscious!"_

Bricker had a feeling he'd find himself in this situation. The appearance of weakness or vulnerability in such dubious and untrustworthy company could be especially dangerous. Criminals had their own 'survival of the fittest' mentality and, right now, Gus knew he was far from being the fittest. The loud pulsating sound in his ears prevented him from hearing the next part of the conversation. He calmed himself in time to hear Torres' final statement.

"_If Lopez says we have enough weapons, Bricker becomes expendable."_

He couldn't let that happen. He had to stay alert and keep his wits about him or he knew he would become Torres' next victim. He walked on rubbery legs to the small adjoining restroom and shoved two fingers down his throat – ridding his stomach of the painkillers before they had time to take a firm hold on him. He washed his face and rubbed his knuckles over the bristly growth on his chin and cheeks.

'_Lose the whiskers!' _A familiar voice sounded in his head but try as he might, he just couldn't put a face or a name to it.

A shiver ran through him and he reached for his jacket to ward off the cold. He picked up the Beretta, feeling reassured by its familiar weight and feel in his hand. Slipping the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket, he frowned as he felt an unfamiliar shape and withdrew his hand drawn plans of the COL warehouse facility. As he stared at the details on the drawings, he rubbed his temples with slightly shaking fingers and realised that the plans could be his ace in the hole. He didn't know how long he could go without the painkillers but he had to try. If Torres was starting to question his value to the team, perhaps he could prove his worth to Lopez - at least until he could get the hell out of there.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

With both agencies having suffered the loss of good men, the battle for jurisdiction over the case was hotly contested. After two hours of rigorous debate involving Director Vance and SecNav, Director Timmins and the Attorney General, NCIS had retained tenuous control of the investigation.

SecNav demanded Caldwell be stood down pending an inquiry into the blatant violation of orders given by the joint operation team leader, NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. However, the Attorney General maintained that Senior FBI Agent Caldwell had ordered his men not to engage and the subsequent deaths of Agents Higgins and Morrison and the critical injuries to Agent Cole were the result of a tragic misunderstanding. Vance noticed that his FBI counterpart was uncharacteristically silent.

Far from satisfied that Caldwell had escaped any form of disciplinary action, Vance returned to the Navy Yard. As instructed, he called a meeting with his MCRT, Doctor Mallard, Abby Scuito and FBI Senior Agents Caldwell and Fornell to discuss their preliminary findings. With animosity running at an all-time high he knew it wouldn't take much to ignite barely restrained tempers.

"Take a seat, let's get started," Vance said, watching as they settled themselves at the conference table and feeling an almost palpable tension in the air. He notice an empty chair. "Where is Miss Scuito?"

The office door opened and a strangely subdued Abby stood anxiously chewing on her lower lip.

"I'm sorry, Director," she said softly. "I was waiting for some last minute test results."

Vance nodded to the conference table. "Take a seat, Miss Scuito, let's begin."

Abby had been distraught when told of the death of Aaron Morrison and the failure to reach Tony in time. Gibbs' eyes narrowed as he watched the forensic specialist take her seat, placing a folder on the table in front of her and placing tightly clasped hands on top. Her mouth was set in a grim line and her usually sparkling green eyes were cloaked in misery. Gibbs waited until she glanced at him from across the table and he raised his right hand to fingerspell the name – Tony. Abby nodded briefly, ruthlessly willing away the tears that threatened. Gibbs' gut tightened painfully – _'this cannot be good.'_

Vance looked at the sombre faces around the table and began by asking Fornell for an update of Agent Cole's condition.

Fornell read from his notes, advising that FBI Agent Nathan Cole was still undergoing major surgery in GWU Hospital and had been given a poor prognosis. Doctors had removed two bullets from his chest – both had entered the chest cavity from the right side, just under the agent's armpit. The first slowed considerably after striking a rib, puncturing his right lung and lodging in his sternum. The second bullet entered his chest between ribs, placing a second puncture wound in his right lung and nicking the pericardium encompassing his heart. From the angle of the entry wounds it was thought the shooter had approached from behind.

Acting under instructions, the doctors had sent the vest and the bullets to NCIS for ballistic and forensic analysis.

Vance asked to be kept informed on the agent's condition and turned his attention to Ducky, asking the ME for his preliminary report from the autopsies of NCIS Probational Agent Aaron Morrison and FBI Agent Don Higgins.

Ducky informed all present that Morrison had suffered a bullet wound to the neck that severed both the external and internal jugular veins and carotid artery causing massive blood loss. There was evidence of a major embolism caused when a large air bubble entered the severed jugular veins. His death was almost instantaneous.

FBI Agent Don Higgins suffered bruising to his upper back when two bullets pounded into his Kevlar vest. A third bullet skimmed the upper edge of the body armour, shattering the C-3 and C-4 vertebrae and severing his spinal cord. As injuries of this kind cause paralysis of the muscles used for breathing, the ME believed that Higgins' died several minutes later due to asphyxiation.

The ME had taken fingerprints and headshots of the other three men killed at the warehouse and passed them on to Ziva, however, due to time restraints, he had not yet performed their autopsies. Ducky had sent the bullets removed from the two agents and three other men to Abby for further processing.

"Have we identified the three other bodies?" Vance asked.

"Yes, we have, Director. I sent the fingerprints and headshots to my contact at Interpol," Ziva said, clicking the remote control and watching as the plasma screen displayed three mug shots. "From left to right, these men are Victor Rios, Raul Aguila and Rudolpho Peredes. Like the other men killed at the Ravensworth warehouse, they are all El Salvador nationals who, until six months ago, were serving sentences of twenty to life in Chalatenango prison."

Fornell shook his head. "Currency exchanged hands and someone bought themselves a readymade army."

"And brought that army onto US soil," Gibbs added.

"Interpol and the El Salvadoran Policia Nacional are now looking into the matter. Their initial investigations have revealed that the release of these prisoners is a very small part of an elaborate plan that could involve the unauthorised release of many more prisoners. They will need to perform a role call at every prison facility in the country to determine exactly how many are missing. At this point in time, they have no idea who could be financing this operation or why."

"Someone has to know something, right?" McGee asked. "I mean, all those men receive a get out of jail free card and no one notices?"

"Corruption is rife in the prison system in Central America," Fornell replied. "The right amount of money can unlock a lot of doors, even prison doors."

"Miss Scuito," Vance asked. "Based on the preliminary reports from Agents David and McGee, these three men were killed by bullets fired from their agency issued weapons. Can you confirm this?"

"Yes, Sir," Abby said turning to her notes and fumbling nervously through the pages. "Ducky, that is, Doctor Mallard removed the bullets from the bodies of the men we have now identified as Rios, Aguila and Peredes and brought them to me for analysis. My findings confirm that two of the bullets were fired from Aaron's…um…Agent Morrison's weapon, one from Agent David's weapon and four from Agent McGee's."

"Agent McGee, your report states that you have identified Miguel Alvaro as the man who shot and killed Agent Morrison," Vance stated.

"Yes, Sir, that is correct. While I was checking the status of the man we now know to be Aguila, Miguel Alvaro appeared from behind our position and fired a shot in my direction. Agent Morrison pushed me out of the way, saving my life and…" McGee paused to clear his throat before continuing. "Saving my life and taking the bullet that was meant for me."

Caldwell had been sitting back in his chair with his arms folded. "Agent McGee, did you witness the shooting of my agents?"

"No, Agent Caldwell, I did not," McGee said curtly. "Nor did I authorise their decision to move to the back of the warehouse. I understand that was you."

Caldwell shrugged. "They were FBI agents obeying the orders of a _senior _FBI agent. You have a problem with that McGee?"

"I do," Vance stated curtly. "NCIS had point on this operation, Caldwell. Your men were there to provide back-up and obey the orders they received during this morning's briefing."

"_My_ men were there to obey _my_ orders!" Caldwell shot back.

"Those orders got them shot and placed everyone in danger," McGee replied, uncharacteristically raising his voice. "Your agents were spotted, Caldwell and even though we were outnumbered, Morrison and I had no choice but to engage and try to give them some cover. You may not have pulled the trigger but in my opinion you're just as responsible for their deaths."

"Agent McGee!" Vance said brusquely, before asking in a gentler tone. "Do you need to take a minute?"

"No, Sir," he replied, taking several calming breaths. "I'm fine."

"Ms Scuito, do you have the results of the ballistic reports from the bullets that killed Special Agent Morrison, Agent Higgins and wounded Agent Cole."

"Yes, Sir, I do," Abby said, flicking uncertain eyes quickly in Gibbs' direction. "Special Agent Morrison was killed by a bullet from a Browning 9mm semi-automatic. Agents Higgins and Cole were shot with a Beretta 92FS."

"The same weapon shot both FBI Agents?" Caldwell asked.

"Yes, the bullets were fired from the same weapon."

"Did you get a match?" the FBI agent persisted.

"Yes," Abby said, her eyes pleading silently for Gibbs to find a way to stop this.

"Well?"

Gibbs nodded his head, signalling for her to proceed and, breathing deeply, Abby replied.

"The weapon is not registered but the ballistic signature matches the Beretta used for undercover assignments by…NCIS Special Agent, Anthony DiNozzo."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

As Matteo Lopez directed his rage at his right hand man, Carlos Torres, for yet another failure, Gus Bricker leaned against the wall in the next room, listening intently through the small opening in the door. Everything hurt. He was well overdue for his pain meds and his head pounded with increasing intensity. He willed the pain to a barely tolerable level, knowing he had to keep a clear mind as he waited for an opportunity.

Dressed in an expensive camel-coloured cashmere overcoat, Lopez pounded his gloved fists on the table and forcibly pushed back his chair. He launched himself to his feet and began to pace the room in an effort to contain his fury.

"Twelve men, Carlos," Lopez hissed. "I gave you twelve men to get the job done and now there are…what? Three?"

"Four," Torres answered, cocking a thumb toward the next room. "With Bricker we have four men left."

"Tell me that you have at least determined how the feds knew where the exchange was to take place!" he yelled. _"Tell me!"_

Torres' expression was calm but he rubbed the inside of his hands against his thighs to dry his sweaty palms.

"I believe the feds got to Castillo," Torres replied. "It's the only answer."

In a fit of rage, Lopez cleared the table with the sweep of his arm, crockery and containers of uneaten take-out falling noisily to the floor.

"_You idiot!_" Lopez seethed. "Not only have we lost most of our team but we have now lost access to COL and the weapons."

"I may be able to help you there," Bricker said, leaning casually against the door jam. "You want weapons? I can help you go straight to the source."

They watched as Bricker pushed off the wall and placed the meticulously detailed blueprints and plans on the table. Then they listened intently as the man explained the best way to access the COL Pax River facility undetected.

"Where did you get these plans?" Lopez asked.

"He drew them," Torres scoffed. "Says he did some reconnoitring for someone but he can't remember who?"

"Is that true?" Lopez asked.

"I may not remember why I scoped out this place but I do remember every security camera, the location of every photoelectric sensor, what time the guards change shifts and the optimum time to get a small team safely into that facility and back out with the ordnance you want."

"You can do that?" Lopez asked.

"For the right price," Bricker replied with a shrug.

Lopez assessed the pale young man, taking in his gaunt complexion and the way he squinted and turned away from the harsh lights. He watched as Bricker cleverly positioned himself to lean his unsteady body against the walls or furniture and it did not escape his notice when the younger man shoved his hands quickly into his pockets, hoping no one would see the slight tremors that Lopez was certain were not caused by fear or nervousness. The older man had not become a successful businessman without knowing how to read a person's facial expressions, their body language and their eyes. Bricker was confident, arrogant and seemed to know his stuff. Was he as good as he said or was he talking a good game?

"How can I be certain that you know what you're doing?" he asked.

"You can't," the younger man answered honestly. "You need the weapons and I can get them – what other choice do you have?"

"If I was interested, what's your price?" Lopez asked.

"Twenty grand…cash…and _I _lead the team. Once that's settled, I'll get you what you need," he said confidently.

"That's bullshit!" Torres blustered. "Stick to weapons, Bricker, _I _am the leader of this team."

"Really, Carlos, how's that going for ya?" Gus asked. "Given your team's excessive body count, I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that people management isn't your forte."

"You son of a bitch," Torres spat, furious at being made to look stupid in front of Lopez and the other men.

He lurched forward suddenly, grabbing Bricker by the jacket and shoving him firmly against the wall. A loud thud sounded as Bricker's head made firm contact with the wall, sending piercing waves of agony vibrating throughout his entire body. He clutched at Torres' wrists, his face distorting as he gasped through the pain.

His heart was beating wildly and his legs kept threatening to give out on him. When Torres released him he dropped sideways against the wall, digging his knuckles into his temples to counteract the pain. Bricker heard their voices beginning to fade and he realized he was going to pass out. He waited for it, even welcomed it but as the darkness crept over him he realised that he had just blown his chance to prove his value and may well have signed his own death warrant.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Caldwell launched himself to his feet.

"I knew it!" he hissed, his eyes flashing with anger as he pointed a finger across the table at Gibbs. "I told you, Gibbs, I told you that DiNozzo was on the take!"

"And I'm still waiting for you to prove it!" Gibbs replied, low and dangerously as he stood chest to chest with the senior FBI agent.

"Two of my men were shot with bullets from his weapon!"

"Doesn't mean he pulled the trigger," Gibbs countered.

"I beg to differ," Caldwell snarled.

"You can beg all you damn-well like, you don't know DiNozzo pulled that trigger!"

"Oh for Christ's sake, Gibbs, what's it going to take to open your eyes?"

"A hell of a lot more than you've got, Caldwell!"

"Sit down! Both of you!" Vance raised his own voice to silence the two senior agents. Both resumed their seats without relinquishing their seething gaze. Vance turned to Abby again.

"Miss Scuito, were you able to lift any prints from the shell casings?" he asked.

Abby chewed her lower lip again. "I was able to extract a partial print from two of the shell casings…both matched Tony's prints."

"It is not unexpected that Tony loaded his own weapon," Ziva said, adding her own scathing glare toward Caldwell. "It still does not prove that he pulled the trigger."

"Agreed," Vance said. "From what we know of Carlos Torres, he is extremely proficient with a handgun. We know DiNozzo was injured - someone could be using his weapon."

"Both my agents were shot while wearing Kevlar vests under their jackets," Caldwell stated. "Whoever shot them came from behind, knew where the vests offered little to no protection and had to be highly proficient with a handgun. DiNozzo is very familiar with Kevlar vests and, by your own admission, recently spent several weeks receiving specialised weapons training at your Contingency Response Field Office. You still say DiNozzo couldn't have done it!"

"Didn't say he couldn't, I said he _wouldn't!_ You've got nothing but speculation!" Gibbs repeated through clenched teeth.

"And you've got a rogue agent! Tell me why DiNozzo's gun was used _only_ to shoot FBI agents?"

"We lost an agent, too!" McGee snapped.

"He wasn't shot with DiNozzo's gun, though, was he? And is anyone else wondering why three of four agents were shot and the only one that made it out virtually unscathed was DiNozzo's partner?"

"Just what are you saying?" McGee hissed. His attempt to get to his feet was hindered by Gibbs' firm hand on his shoulder and he fell back heavily into his chair.

"McGee," Fornell said quietly, attempting to calm the volatile atmosphere. "You mentioned that just before Torres and Alvaro left the warehouse, you saw DiNozzo."

"That's right, I saw him," McGee replied. "He couldn't even stand by himself let alone run around shooting people."

"Was he armed?" Caldwell asked.

McGee hesitated, not liking where this was leading.

"Agent McGee, when you saw Agent DiNozzo, was he armed?"

"Yes, he was."

"What was he carrying?" Caldwell asked.

"I…er…couldn't really see what make of weapon it was, just that he had a weapon."

"Come on, McGee!" Caldwell added. "You've been an agent for how many years now…five…six? You telling us you still can't tell one handgun from another?"

"McGee," Vance prompted.

"A Beretta," McGee said reluctantly. "Tony was holding a Beretta."

"Let's go, Tobias," Caldwell said climbing to his feet. "Director Vance, out of professional courtesy I should tell you that in light of this new evidence, I will be speaking with the Attorney General and petitioning that the FBI take control of this investigation."

"You know the way out, Caldwell," Vance replied. "I suggest you use it!"

Gibbs and Fornell exchanged a silent communication as the FBI agents left the office.

"The heat's gone up a few notches people," Vance said. "Whatever's going on with DiNozzo, we don't leave our people behind."

"Something is seriously wrong," Ziva said. "I refuse to believe that Tony would shoot those FBI agents."

"I agree," Vance said.

"DiNozzo would've blown his own cover rather than leave McGee alone in that warehouse," Gibbs stated.

"Boss, I'm telling you, the way he looked at me, I don't think Tony even knew who I was."

"Doctor Mallard," Vance said. "Doctor Maxwell said DiNozzo was initially disoriented and didn't know what day it was. Is it possible his head trauma has caused some kind of ongoing amnesia?"

"Not only possible, Director, but from what we've heard here today, I'd say highly probable. As you know, before this assignment, Anthony sustained a serious concussion that caused considerable swelling to his left temporal lobe – he suffered memory loss of several hours, including the accident itself," the ME explained.

"And then he suffered another serious head trauma during the explosion," Abby said anxiously. "Oh my God, Ducky, do you really think Tony doesn't remember us?"

"It would seem to explain why he didn't appear to know Timothy and why he hasn't tried to contact any of us, especially you, Jethro. Suffering another serious blow to the exact same region of the temporal lobe, in such a short period of time, could have had major repercussions on Anthony's memory. The temporal lobe is particularly important for memory function – including the transference from short to long term memory and control of personality and behavior. And let's not forget that during the past two months, that young man has spent more time being Gus Bricker than Anthony DiNozzo. However, as serious as that condition may be, there's something of much greater concern."

"Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"Doctor Maxwell told us that Anthony was nauseous; he was suffering severe headaches; light sensitivity and frequent syncopal episodes," the ME said gravely. "Apart from amnesia, we could well be looking at a skull fracture or intracranial bleeding. He needs immediate medical attention!"

"And before the FBI get their hands on him," Vance said. "I'll stall them as long as I can but you need to find him fast. Go! Keep me informed!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

They stripped the unconscious man of his jacket and handgun and placed them on the nearby table before dragging him onto the bed. Alvaro and Salinas managed to rouse him just enough to ensure he swallowed his pain meds. They eased him back against the pillows and walked to where Torres and Lopez stood in the middle of the room.

"I don't like it," Torres said. "Bricker is a liability we can't afford."

"We need to replace the two shipments you lost previously!" Lopez replied, watching the sleeping man. "If you have another idea, Carlos, I'm listening!"

"You saw what happened to him, he couldn't even stand! What if that happens when we're at COL?"

"He couldn't stand because you nearly put his head through the wall." Lopez hissed. "Whether you like it or not, we need him. You assured me that as long as he rested and took his medication, he could function for several hours at a time, are you now telling me this is not correct?"

"What I'm saying is that we hardly know this guy. What makes you think we can trust him to pull off something like this?"

"As he said, what choice do we have? Our freighter leaves in two days. We need more weapons and he can get them."

"We don't need him," Torres scoffed. "We have the blueprints. We can do the job without him."

Lopez' dark menacing eyes narrowed in contemplation as he glared at the sleeping man.

"Perhaps you're right, Carlos," he said, wrapping his fingers around the Beretta that had been placed on the table. "We have what we need and we can' t afford any liabilities."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Overwhelmed by your kind reviews and wonderful PM's. Thanks for your continuing support, L


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 21**

"Yes, Sir, I understand…thank you, Sir," Vance said, placing the telephone receiver back in its cradle before looking up at the anxious eyes of his lead agent.

"He'll do it?"

"SecNav has a security conference with the Joint Chiefs scheduled for tomorrow – he will not be contactable for at least twenty-four hours," Vance said. "Without his consent, the Attorney General cannot give the FBI jurisdiction of this case. That's all the time you've got Gibbs, twenty-four hours. Make them count."

With a cursory nod, the lead agent turned back for the door, stopping abruptly when the director spoke again.

"There's something else. With one of own being accused, we can't afford any allegations of impropriety or evidence tampering on our part."

"We've shared every new lead, every autopsy and forensic report! What more do they want?"

"The FBI wants to process the evidence themselves."

"The damn FBI wants to hang DiNozzo out to dry, Leon!" Gibbs countered angrily.

"I don't like this any more than you do...so I offered a compromise."

"What kind of a compromise?"

"We have a world class Medical Examiner and Forensic Scientist at our disposal. I told them if they are worried about impropriety, they are welcome to send someone to oversee the processing."

"They agreed?"

"They're sending over their own ME and Forensic Scientist right now. You better let Dr Mallard and Miss Scuito know to expect company."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"Jethro, my good man!" Ducky called as the lead agent entered the autopsy room, ubiquitous coffee cup in his hand. "I'm afraid if you're here for my reports on our three most recent Salvadoran guests, you are somewhat premature. Mr Palmer and I have just invited guest number one to centre stage."

"Better hold off on that, Duck, looks like you're about to get company," Gibbs told him.

"Let me hazard a guess – my counterpart from the Hoover Building," the ME said.

"The FBI is coming here? Why?" Palmer asked.

"If I am not mistaken, Mr Palmer, I believe it's because the FBI believe that our own Anthony is implicated in the shooting of their agents."

"But they're wrong, Tony wouldn't murder anyone!"

"Of course not," Ducky said calmly. "Actually, Jethro, I'm rather surprised that the FBI agreed to the autopsies being conducted here and not in their own facilities."

"Thank the director for that, Duck."

"Well, not to worry – the more the merrier I always say. Looks like we might have time for that cup of tea after all, Mr Palmer."

"Need to talk to you about Tony," Gibbs said. His face showed no expression but his friend of many years recognised the deep concern in his stark blue eyes - a look that appeared only when those closest to him were in serious trouble.

"Of course," Ducky said, removing his gloves and turning to his young assistant. "Mr Palmer, would you be kind enough to entertain our next guest while I speak with Agent Gibbs?"

"Entertain, Doctor?" Jimmy asked, his confused gaze flicking between Ducky and the corpse on the table.

"Etiquette and social graces need not cease just because one has passed on, Mr Palmer, I'd have thought you would have known that by now. Don't be shy, introduce yourself!"

"Oh...right, Doctor," Palmer said, looking even more confused.

Gibbs followed the ME into his office, choosing to lean on the doorframe rather than taking a seat.

"You wanted to discuss Anthony," Ducky stated.

"Maxwell said Tony was taking strong medication. Could that be clouding his memory?"

"The medication prescribed by Doctor Maxwell is very strong pain relief. It is the severe head trauma that more than likely caused Anthony's memory loss."

"So the painkillers will help?"

"Now, Jethro, you know I can't possibly be expected to provide an accurate diagnosis without even seeing the lad."

"Best guess."

"For a short while, perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"The medication will alleviate the majority of Anthony's symptoms for several hours at a time."

"But…"

"But it will only suppress the effects of the injuries, it will not treat or cure them. The longer that young man goes without hospital treatment, the less effective those painkillers will be. It is imperative that we find him as soon as we possibly can."

"I'm working on it," Gibbs replied with a quiet determination.

Although the conversation appeared over, Gibbs made no attempt to leave and the astute ME appraised his friend thoughtfully, recognising the former Marine's rare need for reassurance.

"You'll find him, Jethro and whatever obstacles that await that boy, he'll be fine."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I'm sure because it's Anthony…that young man has been blessed with a God given talent for beating the odds."

**0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Leaving Autopsy, Gibbs headed past the elevator, walking toward the forensic labs then stopped suddenly. With a small tilt of his head he turned in the opposite direction and opened the door to the stairwell. He paused for a moment before taking a seat on the stairs beside a pensive McGee.

"You okay?" Gibbs asked, taking a long final draught of his coffee.

"I'm sorry, Boss, I…I just needed a minute…I'll get back to work," the younger man said rising quickly to leave.

"Sit," Gibbs ordered gently, watching as McGee resumed his seat on the stairs.

The bruising on his face was offset by the stark white medi-strips holding his split eyebrow together. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and held his NCIS badge in both hands. He gently fingered the black band he'd slipped across the centre of the badge as a sign of respect.

"I've seen Tony do this a dozen times – even for agents he didn't know," McGee said.

"DiNozzo was a cop. He doesn't need to know them – it's enough for him to know that a fellow agent died in the line."

At the lack of response, Gibbs waited a few moments before speaking again. "You need to take the day, McGee?"

"No!" McGee answered firmly. "I need to be at work, Boss. Tony's still out there somewhere…he needs our help."

"Yes he does," Gibbs nodded at the expected reply. "Something else on your mind?"

"I was just…I was just wondering if Aaron would be alive right now if he had been Tony's probie instead of mine."

"That's not what got him killed."

"I know…I just wonder if maybe I was too soft on him," he laughed humourlessly. "No one could ever accuse Tony of being soft on me. I can't imagine you were soft on Tony, right?"

"Drove him harder than he drives you. Kicked his butt so many times, I thought they were gonna have to surgically remove my boot from his ass."

McGee grinned at the image. "He was that bad?"

"Nope, he was that good. Needed a kick in the pants or a slap to the head to keep him focussed, bring out the best in him. Why'd ya think he drives you like he does?"

"Cause he enjoys it," McGee said with a wry grin.

"Besides that," Gibbs said, a smile ghosting across his lips.

"Maybe that's it…maybe that's where I went wrong."

"Morrison's death…was _not_ your fault, McGee. You can't be DiNozzo any more than he can be me. We're all different, we do our best but sometimes we lose people."

"Aaron died saving my life, Boss."

"He died a hero. Don't tarnish that by blaming yourself. You wanna blame someone; you get back to work and find whoever did this."

A sound escaped from McGee's throat, a hybrid of a sob and a laugh.

"Something funny?"

"I just remembered something Tony told me the night Erin Kendall was murdered," McGee said.

"The young woman who witnessed the murder of a petty officer from the window of her apartment?"

"Yeah…after she was murdered, Tony told me that I could sit there and second guess what I should or shouldn't have done and never get the answer, or I could get back on the job and catch the bastard."

"Good advice," Gibbs said, climbing to his feet.

Breathing deeply and setting his shoulders, McGee stood tall and met the lead agent's gaze.

"Thanks, Boss," he said.

Gibbs watched fondly as McGee, with his focus restored, took the stairs two at a time on his way back to the bullpen.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs walked unnoticed to Abby's large refrigeration unit and removed a Caf-Pow for his favourite forensic scientist. Since the C-4 explosion a few days earlier, Abby had not replaced her sound system, giving the lab an unfamiliar depressing feel.

Leaning back against the wall, he watched as Abby paced anxiously back and forth waving several sheets of paper in the air.

"Okay men, listen up!" she told her much-loved forensic equipment. "I know you're tired but we have a serious situation here. Tony's in trouble and he needs our help. You remember Tony, that sweet, lovable guy that comes in here and makes me smile and pushes all your buttons when he thinks I'm not looking!"

"That's what he does best," Gibbs said, causing Abby to swing around in surprise.

"Makes me smile?" she asked.

"Nope, pushes buttons. DiNozzo was born pushing buttons. Thought you'd already finished that ballistics report."

"I did but I must have missed something, Gibbs!"

"You check it?"

She nodded sullenly. "I've been over it and over it. I'm, like, _totally_ positive I didn't make a mistake but I keep hoping to find a one. I've run the comparisons three times and each time the tests confirm that the bullets removed from FBI Agents Higgins and Cole came from Tony's weapon."

He leaned across to place the caffeinated beverage in front of her and placed a warm callused hand on her tense shoulder.

"Tony didn't shoot those agents, Abs."

"I _know_ that, Gibbs, Tony would _never_ do something like that," Abby said without a trace of doubt. "But you heard Caldwell, he's convinced that Tony is this crazed gunman running around killing FBI agents."

"Caldwell's an ass."

"All those other times when Tony has been accused of murder, we've always found the evidence that proved he didn't do it. I can't find it this time, Gibbs! I feel like I'm letting him down!"

"You could never let Tony down, Abs…or me," he said, wrapping her in a hug. "But he needs you to stay focussed, especially now."

"Aww…thanks Gibbs, you always know...wait! Why _especially_ now? Has something happened? You know something that you're not telling me. I can tell because you get that little squinty, twitchy thing in your left eye." She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "It's okay, Gibbs, whatever it is, I can take it."

"FBI is sending their forensics specialist to process the evidence with you."

"No, Gibbs! I can't take it!" she exclaimed.

"Abs, I know you prefer to work alone but either we agree to this or the FBI processes all the evidence themselves. We need to do this…for Tony."

"You're right, Gibbs!" she said, taking a huge pull of her Caf-Pow. "This is no time to worry about myself – so what if the last person who worked in here tried to frame Tony for murder and then kill me! What are the chances of that happening again, right? Not the framing Tony for murder bit, cos that seems to happen with startling regularity, but the trying to murder me bit…oh, wait…that seems to have happened a lot, too. But my Tony needs my help and I _will not_ fail him!"

"Good girl," he said, starting for the door.

"Wait, Gibbs! I'm not done yet!" Abby called and waited for the lead agent to return to her side before holding up the melted and burnt remains of a cell phone.

"Tony's cell," he stated.

"Correct, my silver-haired super-sleuth!" Abby replied. "As you know the cell was recovered from the warehouse fire. McGee, _totally_ didn't think I could do it but I just kept trying and trying and I'm, like, _so_ close, Gibbs, I can feel it!"

"English, Abs."

"Okay, from what I've been able to recover, so far, Tony _must_ have used the UDTD…that's the User Data Transfer Device to transfer the data from Torres' cell to his."

"Tony got the data?" Gibbs asked, feeling his adrenalin start to pump through his veins.

"Yep! The problem is repairing the damage so I can retrieve the rest of the data. If I can get that, I can access Torres' ESN!" she said excitedly.

"I thought McGee said that even with an electronic serial number the GPS thing had to be active to allow a trace."

"He did and he's right!"

"Abs!"

"There's no doubt that Torres would have disabled the GPS function in his cell, _but,_ using the data that Tony transferred, I should be able to find Torres' network provider and have them reactivate Torres' GPS without him knowing. Then we can trace his cell."

"How long?"

"A few hours…maybe less if the scientist from the FBI knows his electronics."

"Stay on it," he said, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek.

The prospect of a viable lead put the spring back into his step as Gibbs strode to the elevator with a smile ghosting across his lips. His senior field agent was seriously injured and God only knows where… but, still, he had obtained vital information that could give them the break they were looking for. He waited until the elevator doors closed behind him and he allowed a moment of pride for his agent. "Atta boy, Tony!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Needing to clear his head and get some fresh air, Gibbs went for his regular coffee run. He cursed softly at his cell as the recorded voice advised that he had no new messages. "Dammit, Kort, where the hell are you?" he muttered, knowing time was running out.

He returned to the bullpen, desperate for a breakthrough, and placed a coffee on the desks of his exhausted agents. "Ziva!"

"Interpol are working with the El Salvadoran Policia Nacional and have detained ten high ranking members of the prison authority. All have been under suspicion for sometime and all signed papers for the early release of prisoners without judicial approval," Ziva reported. "It will take some time for them to locate any illegal payments and trace the source."

"Dammit, we don't have time!" Gibbs growled.

"I am aware of that, Gibbs," Ziva replied. "It appears our inquiries have sent up flags at Homeland Security and the State Department. The director has received requests for them to be read in as a matter of urgently."

"Tell 'em to take a number," the lead agent replied.

"I believe the director has already done so."

"Where's McGee?"

"Right here, Boss," McGee replied breathlessly. "I just met with ICE Agent Forster-Yates…"

"And?"

"And…you told me to speak with her personally, no emails, no cell phones…"

"I know what _I _said, McGee, what did _she_ say?"

"Right…er…she checked the records at the US Customs and Border Protection. Four different teams performed the four random checks conducted on Lopez Industries shipping containers during the last six months."

"It is highly unlikely that members of all four teams acted dishonestly," Ziva surmised.

"So we got nothin'!" Gibbs stated.

"No, I think we may have something," McGee replied. "Julia said that all orders for random searches are given to US Customs and Border Protection at least forty-eight hours in advance."

"Plenty of time for someone to tip off Lopez," Gibbs said.

"But you said four different teams conducted the searches," Ziva said.

"Yes, but one man received all four orders and assigned the teams – Senior US Customs Officer, Brian Wallace."

"Pick him up! Take Ziva with you!" Gibbs said, reaching for his ringing cell as his agents grabbed their gear. "Wait!"

The agents stopped in their tracks, exchanging confused looks as Gibbs continued his conversation with his usual brevity.

"Good job, Abs, send the address to McGee's PDA."

Gibbs rounded his desk and removed his weapon and ID, then snatched the keys from McGee's hand as he headed for the elevator.

"Boss?"

"Abby was able to access the data Tony transferred from Torres' cell. She's tracking him now – we've got a location."

"Tony got the data?" McGee asked in surprise.

"Tony got the data," Gibbs confirmed with more than a modicum of pride. "Ziva, call Ducky. I want him with us when we find DiNozzo."

"What is our destination?" she asked.

"Alexandria, we'll give him more on route," Gibbs said, brimming with anticipation as he led his team from the office.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The agency sedan turned into a newly zoned residential estate. The semi-developed area was littered with building sites and houses in various stages of completion. The developer had gone bankrupt and all work had stopped until the matter was resolved in the courts.

McGee switched his cell to speaker. "Abs, are you sure we're in the right place? Looks like this estate's been abandoned for some time."

"Signals clear, McGee," she replied, her voice echoing through the vehicle. "You're almost there, take the next left, then it's approximately 500 yards on the right side of the street."

"Got it, standby," McGee said, as he and Ziva did a final check of their weapons and equipment.

"Gibbs?" Abby said timidly. "Remember your promise...bring him home!"

"Gotta find him first, Abs," Gibbs replied solemnly.

As the car proceeded around the corner, the agents were startled to see a Metro PD squad car already parked at their intended destination. Across the lot, a uniformed cop was speaking with a woman and two young boys. Seeing the agents arrive, the cop walked toward them.

"NCIS, what have you got?" Gibbs asked, flashing his badge.

"Two boys taking a short cut through the estate found a dead body near the bushes," the cop replied, nodding his head toward the bushes. "Male caucasian, middle to late thirties, tall, dark hair...GSW to the back of the head."

Gibbs' gut clenched painfully and he refused the dark thoughts further licence as he started toward the bushes. "You ID him?"

"Not yet, I didn't want to touch him until the crime scene was cleared."

Gibbs stopped several feet from the body, McGee and Ziva at his side. Steeling himself against the worst possibility, he took the last few steps and crouched near the head of the body. Lying prone in the dirt, the right side of the face had been horribly disfigured and the dark hair surrounding the neat bullet hole was matted in blood. For a moment Gibbs' heart stopped until a closer look confirmed the man's identity.

"It's Carlos Torres," he said, his calm voice belying his overwhelming relief.

"McGee!"

"Going to talk to the kids, Boss," he replied, walking in the direction of the mother and her children.

"Ziva!"

"I will start processing the scene," Ziva jogged back to the car.

"Wait!" the uniform cop objected. "I've already called for a coroner's van. Our ME's a crotchety old bird, he'd kick my ass into next week if his crime scene is disturbed."

"My crime scene now," Gibbs stated, noting that Palmer had pulled the NCIS coroner's van to the kerb a safe distance away. Whistling loudly, he waved his arm, signalling for the ME's to join them.

"Who's that?" the young cop asked, noting the diminutive figure in the beige hat walking their way.

"My crotchety old bird," Gibbs replied.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

For the first time in almost a week, Gus managed a dreamless sleep. Ten solid hours of drug assisted slumber, free of fleeting visions and scattered, confusing images of people and places that were vaguely familiar but whose identity steadfastly refused to follow him into the waking world.

Despite the desperately needed rest, he still felt sluggish. His head ached dully but the mind-numbing pain was gone – at least for the moment. He heard voices coming from the adjoining room and struggled to his feet. When he'd collapsed earlier, Bricker had thought for certain that Lopez would consider him too great a liability and would order him killed. Looking around frantically for his Beretta, he found it on the nightstand and tucked it into the back of his jeans.

He frowned - it didn't make sense that Lopez would wait until he was rested and _then_ kill him. Perhaps his services as a weapons specialist were still required after all, or maybe Lopez had decided to proceed with Gus' plan of striking the COL warehouse.

Miguel Alvaro opened the door to the bedroom, the shaft of light from the outer room shooting spikes into Bricker's brain. Gus was shocked to learn that Torres was dead – one failure too many as far as Lopez was concerned and another example of how dangerously obsessed the man really was. Gus needed to finish this job and get the hell out of there.

By the time Bricker had taken a hot shower and had a few bites to eat, Lopez had returned and joined Alvaro, Diaz and Salinas in the sitting room. All listened attentively as Gus reviewed final preparations for their unauthorised sojourn to COL's Pax River Warehouse.

"You're sure about this?" Alvaro asked. "You're sure the four of us can pull this off."

"Absolutely," Bricker replied. "Whoever installed the security equipment left a black spot - a corridor, thirty feet wide, with no camera coverage. We time our arrival to coincide with the change of shifts for the guards – we can back the truck right up to the fence and cut through the wire."

"The wire's not hot?"

"Nope, someone got a little too complacent – thought they had enough high-tech equipment inside and didn't bother about electrifying the fence."

"What about the feds? They've been all over us," Lopez stated. "Torres couldn't prevent that, what makes you think you can?"

"The feds would never expect us to hit something this big," Bricker stated. "We get in, get what we need and get out, twenty minutes, tops…that is…if you have my money."

"You have just told us how to get in and out of this complex undetected," Lopez said. "I could kill you right now and save my money. You disappoint me, Bricker, you are not as clever as I thought you were."

"If you think I told you where all the cameras and sensors are, _you're _not the savvy businessman _I_ heard _you_ were," Bricker countered. "If you want the ordnance and you want your people in and out safely – I want my money – now!"

Lopez glared at the audacity of the younger man.

"Come now, Bricker, if I give you the money now, how do I know you'll do the job?" Lopez asked with a hint of anger infiltrating his calm façade.

"I want my money now or you can lead this operation yourself. Although, I'd recommend you change your shoes. You really don't wanna be traipsing through the rain and the mud in those Salvatore Ferragamos."

The two men reached a dangerous stalemate. Bricker's green eyes were hard and steady and showed no sign of fear or intimidation. He knew he was taking a huge chance. Lopez was a man not used to failure or dissension – the demise of Carlos Torres laid testament to that fact. Lopez' kohl-dark eyes burned with fury then suddenly his mouth twisted into a forced smile. He reached a gloved hand into his overcoat and removed a stack of banded hundred dollar bills, handing the money to Bricker.

"Ten thousand now, ten thousand when the job's done," Lopez said.

"Deal," Bricker replied, placing the money into a deep pocket in his jacket.

"We are leaving for El Salvador in two days," he said. "I need another lead man and you appear to have the "attributes" I'm looking for. You will, of course, be well paid."

"Well, your staff superannuation plan is impressive," Bricker said with a wry smile as he tapped the money in his jacket pocket. "But your down-sizing methods are a little harsh. If it's all the same to you, I think I'll remain freelance."

Lopez continued to assess the younger man as Bricker's attention returned to his team. He questioned each man, ensuring they all knew exactly what they needed to do. Lopez was intrigued. Rarely did he find a man with the cojones to look him in the eye and disagree with him. Bricker had accomplished all that had been asked of him and more – even after being seriously injured. Lopez had never been one to take no for an answer. If Bricker successfully completed the job at COL, he could name his price – Lopez was determined that the younger man would join him in El Salvador.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Director Vance glanced up from reading a report as Gibbs entered the office and approached his desk. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"This is not good," he said.

"DiNozzo didn't kill Torres, Leon," Gibbs answered definitively.

"I agree but knowing it and proving it are two entirely different things," the director replied. "The ballistics and autopsy reports I just finished reading say that Torres was killed by a bullet to the back of the head, fired from DiNozzo's weapon."

"Still doesn't mean Tony fired the gun."

"No it doesn't but it's getting harder and harder to convince the FBI of that. Speaking of the FBI, they're sending an agent over for an update of your investigation," Vance said.

"Caldwell?" Gibbs said, almost spitting the name.

"Your buddy Fornell," Vance replied. "What else do you have?"

"Torres had the name of Senior US Customs official Brian Wallace, in the speed dial of his cell. Wallace was probably calling Torres whenever a Customs search was scheduled."

"You send Ziva and McGee to pick him up?"

"Thought about it," Gibbs said. "But Wallace would have only dealt with Torres. With him dead, Lopez has got to get those weapons out of the country and he'll need Wallace's help to clear Customs."

"So you think we should leave him where he is, have him watched and let Lopez come to us?"

"Doesn't help us find DiNozzo but it may help us get something on Lopez," Gibbs said, his frustration evident. "My sources from SouthCom said the CIA has greatly increased its presence around the El Salvador and Honduras border."

"Quite a coincidence – and we all know how you feel about those. Anything from Kort?"

"Nothing."

"Probably just as well, the man's a rattle snake, you never know which way he's gonna strike," Vance stated.

The sound of Gibbs' cell brought the discussion to a temporary halt as Gibbs spoke succinctly to the caller and hung up.

"I'll keep you posted," Gibbs said as he turned to leave the office.

"You got something?" Vance asked.

"An appointment with a rattle snake."

**0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Waiting by the Lincoln Memorial, Trent Kort growled his displeasure as the howling wind and torrential rain turned his umbrella inside out and rendered it ineffectual. Cursing under his breath, he threw the useless item in a nearby trashcan, wondering what possessed him to choose an outdoor meeting place in such inclement weather. He leaned forward and, catching a glimpse of his image in the reflecting pool, adjusted his collar.

"DiNozzo owes me fifty bucks," Gibbs' voice sounded from behind him. "He told me vampires cast no reflection…seems they do."

"And here I was thinking our relationship had taken a turn for the better," Kort answered sarcastically.

"I can't help what you think, Kort" Gibbs shrugged. "Been trying to contact you for days."

"This might come as a shock to you, Gibbs, but I'm not one of your flunkies that jump whenever you call. This is your dime and I need to be back in my coffin before the sun rises – what do you need."

"I want to know about a CIA operation that's mounting on the El Salvador and Honduras border."

Kort smiled humourlessly. Dressed in a dark trench coat, his perennial five o'clock shadow and almost bald head gave him the look of a character from a B-grade gangster movie and Gibbs knew the man's motives could be decidedly sinister. With his senior field agent in desperate trouble, Gibbs would be willing to deal with the devil himself if it helped him get to Tony.

"CIA operations are classified, you know that," Kort said in his unhurried, baritone voice.

"Then, tell me what you know about Matteo Lopez."

The CIA operative stared back at him impassively. "Any particular reason why I should? Last time we met, you said we'd evened the score."

"Changed my mind," Gibbs replied with a shrug. "You still owe me from the Siravo case. I'm here to collect."

Sighing theatrically, Kort replied.

"Lopez came to the USA from El Salvador in 1990 as a war-refugee."

"Already know that."

"Yes, but did you know that he was an active member of the El Salvador Resistencia Revolucionario, a rebel guerrilla faction who fought against the military-led government in the civil war. He is allegedly involved with as many as a dozen wealthy Salvadoran ex-pats, financing and supplying weapons and ordnance to ESRR."

"Allegedly?"

"Okay…not so allegedly."

"I was under the impression that ESRR were disbanded at the end of the civil war."

"They have regrouped and are preparing an insurgency to over throw the Salvadoran government. Even got themselves a ready-made army. As many as three hundred Salvadoran prisoners, all serving sentences of twenty to life, have been released from prison without judicial processing during the last six months on the condition they fight for the ESRR."

"Not much of a deal, get released from prison and risk being killed fighting someone else's war."

"El Salvador has 19 prisons, designed for a total of 7,500 inmates," Kort explained. "They currently house close to 20,000. A large percentage of those inmates belong to rival MS and Mara 18 gangs."

"Odds of survival are better on the outside," Gibbs quickly concluded.

"ESRR have accumulated a huge stockpile of weapons and explosives just over the Honduran border. We believe they were shipped from the US and we've been watching Matt Lopez for sometime now."

"The CIA believed Lopez was involved in something of this magnitude, yet you did nothing?"

"Like you keep telling me, Gibbs, the CIA has no criminal jurisdiction on US soil. If we want Lopez – we have to wait until he leaves the US to get him."

"Why don't you cut the crap? The CIA has an obligation to pass that kind of information on to the appropriate government agencies. A lot of good men would still be alive if that had been done," Gibbs argued. "Hell, I've got a man undercover who's working it right now!"

"If you're talking about DiNozzo, my sources tell me that he isn't working it – he's running it!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**A/N **El Salvador Resistencia Revolucionario is based on a guerilla organisation that fought against the military-led government during the civil war in El Salvador, however, I changed the name to protect...well, me!

Thank you, as always, for your wonderful support. Big, big, big, big chapter coming up next! Hope you'll join me, L


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_REMINDER Scenes written in italics will represent disjointed fragments of Tony's memories. They will include dialogue and snippets from past episodes of the show. L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 22**

Upon his return, Gibbs met with his team and the director in the bullpen and relayed the details of his meeting with Kort.

"I don't understand why the CIA would keep something this important to themselves!" McGee hissed in frustration.

"The CIA marches to its own drum," Vance replied. "If this operation is as big as Kort says, my guess is that they didn't want Lopez alerted until they were in a position to arrest the other key players. The CIA would then seize and keep the enormous assets of the men financing the operation _and_ the cache of weapons."

"CIA can have the other players…I want Lopez," Gibbs said with conviction.

"Did Kort give you any idea who his source was?" Ziva asked.

"Knowing how Kort operates, it could be Lopez himself," Gibbs replied in disgust. "What else we got?"

"I spoke with ICE Agent Foster-Yates, via MTAC, a short time ago," McGee replied. "The next container ship due to leave the Norfolk shipping yard for El Salvador is scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow. Next one after that is not for three weeks. I checked the manifest of the ship and Lopez Industries has a container being loaded late tomorrow. The contents are listed as electrical goods and machinery parts."

"Lopez has to be getting desperate," Gibbs said. "His last three attempts to get more weapons failed and with Castillo in protective custody, he's lost his link to COL."

"With Torres dead, he doesn't have the numbers to try anything too elaborate," McGee said.

"Lopez may have no choice but to take what weapons he already has and leave the country," Ziva stated.

"Then he'd have no use for Tony," McGee replied. "You don't think he's…"

"He's alive," Gibbs said.

"How do we know?"

"I know."

"I've sent Mailley's team to liaise with Foster-Yates," Vance said. "They have the Customs Officer, Wallace, under surveillance – if he's contacted by Lopez, we'll know about it."

The "ding" of the elevator heralded the arrival of FBI Agent, Tobias Fornell who was still shaking off the heavy rain as he joined the group in the bullpen.

"Director, Jethro," he said, nodding briefly to Ziva and McGee. "I believe you're expecting me."

Vance looked at the FBI agent and frowned.

"Looks like you got wet for nothing, Fornell," Vance told him. "Caldwell called almost an hour ago. He said he tried to call you on your cell but couldn't reach you. He wants you back at your office ASAP."

"You're kidding, right?" Fornell turned to Gibbs. "He's kidding, right?"

"Nope," Gibbs replied watching his friends face colour with anger.

Fornell checked his cell and found no missed calls. He pointed to Gibbs' desk. "Mind if I make a call?"

"Help yourself," Gibbs replied, feeling a twinge from his famous gut that something wasn't right.

McGee answered the insistent ring of his own desk phone. Frowning, he replaced the handset a moment later.

"You got something, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"Jack Corbin is in the lobby, Boss. He's asked to see you and the director."

"I thought he was in Geneva on a weapons manufacturer's symposium," Vance replied.

"He's very insistent, Director, says it's important," McGee said.

"Very well, have him escorted up."

Corbin Ordnance Limited, CEO, Jack Corbin, arrived in the bullpen moments later and greeted Vance and Gibbs with firm handshakes.

"Mr Corbin," Vance said. "I'm sorry but this really isn't a very good time. You said you had something important to discuss."

"Yes, Director, and I'm sorry to show up unannounced, however, I'm here to personally thank one of your agents," Corbin replied.

"One of my agents?"

"I just returned from Geneva this morning. When I got back to my office there was a mountain of correspondence needing my attention. I was sifting through my emails when I noticed one marked urgent that had been sent to me over a week ago," Corbin explained with an embarrassed grin. "Never was one for checking my emails."

"Go on," Vance prompted.

"The email raised some serious flaws in the security of our Pax River warehouse facility. I've made urgent arrangements to address the findings first thing in the morning," Corbin said. "I know I asked your other agent to pass on my thanks but I'm so grateful, I wanted to come in and thank Agent DiNozzo personally."

"DiNozzo?"

"Yes, the email I received was from Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," Corbin replied, his head swivelling as he looked around the bullpen. "He's probably wondering why it took me so long to respond. Is he here? I'd really like to shake his hand."

McGee paled noticeably. "Boss, before Tony went undercover he helped me view the security tapes and blueprints of COL's warehouse – you don't think…"

"Grab your gear!" Gibbs ordered as he, Ziva and McGee immediately drew their weapons from their desks and grabbed their backpacks.

Gibbs rounded his desk and then stopped suddenly. "What other agent?" he asked Corbin.

"I'm sorry?" Corbin said, a little startled by the sudden frenetic activity.

"You said that another agent called and you asked him to pass on your thanks to DiNozzo."

"Oh, yes, he just wanted to go over a few aspects of my earlier statement."

"He give you his name?" Gibbs asked.

"Of course, he said his name was Agent Caldwell."

Gibbs and Vance exchanged an urgent look. "How long ago?" Vance demanded.

"About an hour," Corbin said, completely confused by the situation.

Fornell slammed the handset of the phone onto the cradle, looking as grim as Gibbs had ever seen him.

"Caldwell's made the same connection as you have. He has a team on their way to Pax River," he said. "But there's something else…he's got one of the Bureau's best snipers with him."

"I'll have a chopper standing by at Anacostia. Go!" the director said, reaching for the phone as his agents and Fornell hustled to the parking lot.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

They made good time in the torrential rain and arrived at Anacostia Naval Station, knowing that night would have fallen by the time they reached Pax River. They estimated that the FBI had a thirty-minute head start and Gibbs fervently hoped they wouldn't be too late.

Leaving the car in the parking lot, the agents ran through the pelting rain to the heliport. The former Marine pulled up short and was shunted forward three times as McGee, Ziva and finally Fornell cannoned into him from behind.

"Boss?" McGee asked in a concerned tone.

Gibbs' eyes lit up and he shook his head in admiration.

"Remind me to buy the director a drink, McGee," he said, looking at the first big break the team had caught in several days.

Waiting for them on the tarmac was a Westland Lynx ZB500 helicopter on loan from the Royal Navy. With a maximum recorded speed of nearly 250 miles per hour they were certain to make up some very valuable time.

After strapping themselves in and positioning their headsets, Gibbs gave the co-pilot a thumbs-up signal and the chopper was airborne within a minute.

"Skipper, what's our ETA?" Gibbs asked.

"We're flying into some pretty strong headwinds, Sir, but we should make Pax River in fifteen minutes, tops," the young lieutenant replied. "I've been authorised to set down in a vacant paddock about half a mile from the COL complex. Director Vance has arranged for a Navy vehicle to meet you there. It will have flak-jackets in the trunk."

McGee reached into his backpack for his computer. "Lieutenant, is it okay to use my laptop?" he asked the pilot.

"Fine, Sir," the pilot answered. "I suggest you keep a good grip on it though, it's gonna get wild up here."

McGee opened his laptop and brought up the blueprints and security schematics of the COL Pax River complex. Opening his inbox, he found that Vance had forwarded a copy of Tony's email to Jack Corbin. He began studying the plans earnestly, crosschecking his observations with that of his senior field agent's to keep his mind off the increasing turbulence.

"Gibbs, perhaps we are wrong," Ziva said, watching the look of concern on the usually inscrutable face. "Perhaps Tony will not be at the warehouse complex."

"He's there," Gibbs answered decisively.

Although they had no real proof of Tony's whereabouts, they knew better than to question the deeply intuitive bond that existed between Gibbs and his missing agent.

Unable to remain silent any longer, Gibbs snapped at Fornell. "Only one reason Caldwell would take a sniper, Tobias. He's not planning on bringing DiNozzo back alive."

"He holds DiNozzo responsible for the death of Agent Sanchez and the shooting of Higgins and Cole."

"That son of a bitch isn't satisfied with being judge and jury, now he wants to be the damn executioner!"

"He's convinced DiNozzo's gone rogue and that he killed Torres to take over the smuggling operation. Worse than that, he's convinced a lot of others."

"And you, Tobias? Caldwell convince you?" Gibbs angrily challenged his friend of many years.

"There's a reason this was planned while I was out playing in the rain, Gibbs," Fornell replied firmly, unable to hide his anger. "I'm here with you, that answer your question?

The two old friends held each other's gaze as a wordless apology was offered and accepted.

"Tony was right," McGee said, his voice carrying through the speakers of the headsets.

"McGee?"

McGee tried to position the laptop where all four agents could see it clearly as they huddled as close as their seat belts allowed.

"Boss, Warehouse C, at the back of the complex, has a large blind spot," McGee said.

"How large?" Gibbs asked.

"Literally large enough for you to drive a truck through, or at least up to the fence without being seen by any of the cameras."

"What about sensors?" Ziva asked.

"They're all on the schematics, if someone knew their location, they'd be easy to avoid."

"What kind of ordnance is housed in Warehouse C?" Fornell asked.

McGee's rapid keystrokes couldn't be heard over the helicopter engines but a moment later he replied.

"Mostly small arms and light weapons, from revolvers to submachine guns."

"Light and easy to transport," Fornell said.

Gibbs looked at his watch – they'd made good time and were five minutes out. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest with Trent Kort's words echoing through his mind.

"He isn't working it – he's running it."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Bricker had led his small team into the COL complex undetected, avoiding the cameras and the photoelectric sensors with embarrassing ease. Picking the lock with a skill he couldn't remember perfecting, they entered the warehouse. Using only the muted night lighting, they carefully chose weapons and ammunition that were easily transportable.

The canopy of low cloud had prevented the moon from affording it's natural light and provided the cover of darkness they needed while they loaded the truck. Torrential rain made the ground underfoot slippery as they trekked back and forth from the warehouse to the truck.

With the truck half-loaded, they returned to the warehouse for more weapons. Bricker groaned as his headache, rapidly reasserted itself – aided and abetted by the adrenalin pumping through his veins and the exertion of lifting and carrying the heavy crates.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Estimating that his agents would arrive after the FBI, Director Vance and Jack Corbin knew they had to try to delay the "men in black" by any means possible. Instructing the guards at the security gate not to allow the FBI access, was always destined to fail. However, it gained them several precious minutes while the FBI produced a warrant and the security guards had it verified for authenticity.

Once inside the gate, Caldwell listened intently to his earwig as the two agents he had sent to scout the perimeter of the complex, reported back.

"There's a truck parked at the rear of the complex, behind Warehouse C," the voice reported. "It's being loaded with crates. Looks like they've cut through the fence."

"How many are we dealing with?" Caldwell asked.

"We've only seen four but there could be more inside," came the reply.

"Is DiNozzo with them?"

"That's affirmative, we have had a visual on DiNozzo."

"Hold your position in case they make a run for it," Caldwell ordered then turned to address the rest of his men. Ignoring the pouring rain, he spread a map of the complex and warehouses onto the hood of his vehicle.

"We'll leave the vehicles here and approach on foot, surrounding the warehouse and blocking off all ground level exits. I want DiNozzo! The man's dangerous and he's out of control. We've lost too many men by his hand."

Pointing to the map, Caldwell continued. "There are three internal fire exits leading to the roof – one located at either end of the building and one in the middle. Leave the fire stairs clear! If DiNozzo runs, he'll have to run to the roof. Agent Samson and I will be in position on the roof of the adjacent warehouse. Are there any questions?"

He glanced at every agent, receiving acknowledgements that his instructions were understood.

"Do not let the fact that he is a federal agent influence you. If given half a chance, this man will kill you," Caldwell warned. "Move out!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Bricker re-entered the warehouse, contemptuously disregarding his body's demand to rest. He bent to pick-up a large box of ammunition when shouting and gunfire had him diving for cover. He drew his weapon, running at a crouch behind a row of stacked crates and skidding to a stop in time to see Alvaro gunned down near the rear entrance of the warehouse.

More gunfire sounded - this time from behind him. Staying behind the cover of the crates, he found a vantage point and witnessed an FBI agent kicking the gun from Diaz' lifeless fingers. To the right, Salinas was bleeding heavily from a wound to the thigh and was being dragged from the building.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

A Navy vehicle approached the COL complex at great velocity, stopping within inches of the impressive steel security gates. Expecting their arrival, the guards hurried to the car to report that the FBI had already gained access and heavy gunfire had begun several minutes ago from the vicinity of Warehouse C.

Not waiting for the gate to open fully, Gibbs stepped on the gas, extricating the side mirrors as the sedan squeezed through the too narrow opening.

"Better let me go in first," Fornell said. "These agents know me, you go charging in there and you're likely to get shot."

Skidding to a halt next to Warehouse C, the agents burst from the car. McGee threw open the trunk and grabbed the Kevlar vests from inside. Shrugging into one, he handed one each to Fornell and Ziva, then groaned in frustration as he saw Gibbs already running toward the loading bay, where several FBI agents had blocked the entrance.

"Boss!" he yelled futilely, knowing the lead agent had no intention of returning for the vest.

"Damn," Fornell cursed, awkwardly donning his own vest and following his stubborn counterpart with McGee and Ziva on his heels.

As the FBI agents turned, poised to open fire, Fornell called to his colleagues, ordering them to stand down. He and the NCIS agents joined them at the entrance of the warehouse.

"Status report," Fornell ordered.

"Sir, we have four offenders, two have been neutralised, one was wounded and surrendered, the last one is still armed but with all the exits covered, he's got nowhere to go."

"DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, fighting to keep the emotion from his voice.

"He's the last man standing, Sir," the agent replied, "Haven't spotted him in a while, probably holed up assessing his options."

"Where's Caldwell?" Fornell asked.

"He and Agent Samson just left to take up their position on the adjacent roof. It's just a matter of time before DiNozzo makes a run for the roof like a rat up a drainpipe. When he does, our sniper will be waiting for him."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Bricker's head was spinning, the pain chasing away all coherent thought. How the hell had this happened? He was certain he hadn't triggered any of the security devices. Drenched in rain and sweat, trembling with pain and fatigue, he closed his eyes and tried to think past the fog in his brain but came up with nothing. The effort to think clearly, taxed what little strength he seemed to have, and he fought to prevent himself from passing out. His mouth was suddenly dry and his heart pounded so fast, he could hardly take a full breath.

FBI agents covered every exit, leaving only one option – the roof. On legs that could barely support him, he ran for the stairwell, ignoring the sporadic gunfire and not even returning fire as he slammed his shoulder painfully into the heavy door. His heart was beating wildly as he stumbled upward, every movement exacerbating the debilitating pain in his head.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Hearing the gunfire from the far end of the building, Gibbs moved forward and caught a glimpse of Tony, running at a crouch to the fire stairs. His heart stopped as he realised his agent was heading for the roof and right into the path of the FBI sniper.

"Tony!" Gibbs shouted, as the younger man stumbled through the door to the stairwell.

He took off at a dead run, ordering Ziva and McGee to take the other two staircases to the roof and to exercise all caution. Entering the stairwell, he could hear Tony's labouring breathing and heavy footsteps above and ignored the sharp pain in his knee as he took the stairs two at a time.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Bricker reached the roof and forced the fire door open. The strong wind violently wrenched the door from his grip and almost ripped it from its hinges. Driving rain struck his skin painfully. Fork lightning lit up the sky with a strobe light effect that caused him to crush his eyes closed against the constant waves of nausea assailing him. Now that he was on the roof, where could he go? His mind was racing, the adrenaline pumping through his veins and giving him the strength to remain on his feet, brought with it a resurgence of the near crippling headache.

He hated the murkiness in his brain. He looked around the rooftop, looking for a way down. There were two other doorways located at either end of the roof and leading to internal stairwells. The adjacent warehouses were too far apart to attempt a jump and in his current condition, he doubted he'd make it anyway. And then he saw it – behind and to the left of the stairwell he'd just exited was an external fire escape down the outside of the building – his only chance to get away.

A loud crack of thunder followed closely on the heels of a brilliant flash of lightning and increased the pain in his head. He slammed his eyes closed again but the brightness infiltrated his closed eyelids. He crushed his left hand into his temple, desperate to ease the mind-numbing pain as his memory teased him again.

"_I just killed a guy back there and I am not getting caught! "And to think I almost made it a whole year without being accused of murder." "I was looking at twenty-five to life and I wasn't gonna let that happen." "You don't strike me as the type to kill a man." "Sorry to disappoint you." "I didn't kill anyone!" "Prison changes a man."_

The pain eased marginally and he cracked his eyes open. Peering into the darkness his eyes finally focused on a silver-haired man just exiting the stairwell in front of him.

"Don't move!" he said in a voice so low and so fierce that Gibbs barely recognised it.

With trembling hands he aimed his weapon directly between the agent's piercing blue eyes. In his peripheral vision, he caught glimpses of two other agents approaching from the other stairwells, both aiming their weapons at him. He took several large steps backward to improve his line of vision.

"Drop your weapons!" he shouted menacingly. "I'll kill him! Drop your weapons!"

Gibbs searched Tony's eyes, finding them frighteningly hard. His gut twisted as he saw no sign of recognition, no vestige of the friendship they'd shared for the last nine years - only pain and unbridled hostility.

"Put your weapons down," Gibbs directed McGee and Ziva, more concerned for his injured agent than the threat on his own life. "Do it!"

McGee immediately placed his weapon on the ground, raised his hands and took several paces back but Ziva remained unmoved. Her weapon aimed unwaveringly at her senior field agent.

"Ziva, stand down!" Gibbs snapped.

"Gibbs, he does not know who we are – he could kill you."

"He won't – _stand down!_"

They watched as the Israeli reluctantly placed her weapon at her feet and moved away.

Gibbs allowed his weapon to dangle harmlessly from one finger, his eyes never leaving his agent's as he took two small steps forward. Drawing a calming breath, he spoke in an even voice that belied his inner turmoil.

"Tony...let me get you outta here. Put the gun down...you've gotta trust me."

"You've got the wrong man," he snarled in reply, an expression of pain and anger masking his handsome face.

His breathing was noisy and strained; he was pale, shaking and fighting to understand why federal agents who had him outnumbered three to one, would not simply back the odds and kill him. Inexplicably, he found himself drawn to the man standing in front of him, desperately wanting to believe him.

McGee took a breath and held it as he watched Ziva stealthily remove her spare weapon from the small of her back. Capitalising on Tony's focus on Gibbs, she positioned herself; her weapon wavered a little before it steadied and aimed unfalteringly at Tony's head.

"Let me get you to a medic. Tony…trust me," Gibbs said calmly.

The thudding inside his head began to increase and he again pressed his hand to his head - swaying and stumbling several steps before regaining his balance. His gun continued to wave dangerously at Gibbs as he searched the man's expression for any sign of deceit but found nothing but honesty.

**0—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Unable to access the adjacent warehouse, Caldwell and FBI Sniper, Agent Samson, had been forced to use the external fire escape to reach the roof and take up their position. Despite his expertise, the tumultuous conditions of the storm required Samson to take a moment longer than usual to ready himself for the shot. He watched through his night-scope as his laser dot faltered then steadied over DiNozzo's heart.

Without pause, Caldwell gave the order to his sniper.

"Take him!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

A mixture of shock and horror crossed Gibbs' face as his eyes were drawn to the red laser dot that zigzagged across the younger man's body before settling on his chest.

The look of mute disgust that Tony unleashed on Gibbs when he saw the laser aimed at his chest was enough to shatter the former Marine's heart. A bitter smile curled the edges of the younger man's lips.

"This what you call trust?" he spat.

The loathing in Tony's eyes quickly changed to confusion and shock when, without hesitation, Gibbs stepped into the line of fire, blocking the shot.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"I've lost the shot, Sir," the sniper replied. "Agent Gibbs has stepped into the line."

"Dammit!" Caldwell cursed. "Can you get a better angle?"

"Not from here, I could move to the rear warehouse but there's no guarantee the target wouldn't move in the meantime."

"Stay on it - fire when ready!"

"Yes, Sir."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Bricker's head was pounding so hard he thought it was about to split wide open. Between the pain, fatigue and the cold he was trembling so badly that, even in his two-handed grip, the gun kept wavering. His knees almost gave out and he staggered drunkenly to his left, the older man mirroring his steps and keeping his own body between Tony and the sniper.

"Gibbs!" Caldwell called from the roof of the neighbouring warehouse. "Get the hell out of the way!"

"You wanna shoot him, Caldwell, you're gonna have to shoot right through me!" Gibbs replied evenly.

McGee said a silent prayer, knowing that in his haste to get to Tony, Gibbs had disregarded SOP's and was not wearing a Kevlar. Tony's weapon was aimed menacingly at Gibbs, Ziva had a clear shot at Tony and the FBI sniper had them both in his laser sight. Try as he might, he couldn't remember this particular scenario coming up when he was at FLETC.

Bricker was past being aware of where he was or who was with him. All he knew was that his head was exploding and every breath felt like his last. He tried to snag the stray thoughts that were skimming through his brain. _'Who is this man? Why would he risk his own life to protect me?' _

Shattered images returned like shadows flickering along the edge of his subconscious but moving too fast for him to grasp. His headache caused his vision to lose focus as his brain chased the disturbing, disjointed memories.

_He was in a blue room, sterile and impersonal. Fighting to breathe as his lungs filled with fluids. The sounds of his own gasping breaths were ridiculously loud to his own ears. Then a voice cut through his panic and gave him hope. 'You will not die.'_

_Something wasn't right – he was checking in, as ordered, walking back to his car when the world went out of focus and tilted badly to the right. He'd screwed up. He drew his weapon and just made it to the car when he passed out. The last thing he remembered before the darkness took him was that same familiar voice. 'Tony! We're coming for you!' _

_He was sitting in a holding cell, a sense of misery and despair overwhelming him. "I'm not getting out of this one, Boss, am I?" With a simple movement of his head the older man called him over and, reaching through the bars, gave him a quick head slap that bolstered him and restored his composure. T__he older man said nothing but his blue eyes asked for his trust - he gave it willingly. _

Suddenly, too tired to fight anymore, the fragmented visions returned, faster and faster, again and again, overwhelming his senses.

_'You're irreplaceable.' 'Now you're making it right...and me proud.' 'Not bad, DiNozzo.' 'You've been doing, a heck of a job, Anthony.' 'Atta boy!'_

Tony was in obvious pain, causing Gibbs' gut to clench violently. Ducky's warning of serious concussion, possible skull fractures and intracranial bleeding kept echoing in his mind and he ran agitated fingers through his short, silver hair as the torrential rain continued. He breathed deeply and took another few cautious steps forward.

The younger man was just about out on his feet, still swaying and staggering dangerously with the former Marine matching his movements and desperately blocking the sniper's line of fire.

"Tony, put the gun down," he said, ignoring the weapon and staring hard at his agent. "Tony…trust me."

The weapon fell from lax fingers as the younger man looked at him with frightened and confused eyes and the tiny whisper was almost carried away with the wind.

"Boss?"

From the roof of the adjacent warehouse, two industrial strength halogen lights flooded the roof in brightness. The sudden explosion of light was like an ice pick driven into Tony's brain - stealing his breath and narrowing his vision to a mere pinprick of colour and light.

Time seemed to lose all meaning, trapping Gibbs between seconds as he watched Tony's eyes roll back into his head and his knees buckle, pitching him sideways toward the ground. Gibbs' heart leapt into his throat as the sudden movement of his agent caught him by surprise. Before he could cover Tony's movement with his own, he heard the familiar crack of a sniper rifle and felt a burning sensation as the bullet grazed his right bicep. He watched in horror as the bullet continued on to hit Tony's falling body high in the left shoulder.

Ignoring his own injury, he was immediately at his agent's side, pressing his fingers to the pulse point under Tony's jaw line. He sighed in relief when he felt a strong yet rapid rhythm beneath his fingers then he rolled him onto his back and applied pressure to the wound.

"Get the medics up here!" he yelled.

He shifted Tony's body from the wet ground until it was a dead weight against his chest. Tightening his grip around the unconscious man, he leaned forward and spoke quietly.

"I gotcha, Tony, I gotcha."

**0—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A/N:- Thanks again for your terrific support. This chapter was alot of fun to write. I really hope you enjoyed it, L


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 23**

Gibbs had to hand it to the director - Vance had come through for them again, cutting through the red tape and arranging a medivac within minutes of receiving McGee's call. His intelligence and counter intelligence background was a perfect fit for the political bobbing and weaving that came with running a government agency. Vance seemed right at home going head-to-head with the FBI or any of the alphabet agencies and Leroy Jethro Gibbs was more than happy to let him handle that side of things.

The corpsmen had been working feverishly to stabilise his unresponsive agent when Caldwell demanded the younger man be taken into custody. The former Marine supposed he should be thankful that Fornell and McGee dragged him away before he could break his hand on the bastard's face - right now he was still fuming about being denied that pleasure. There was a moment's consolation later, when the FBI director notified Caldwell that Tony _and _Salinas would both remain in NCIS custody for the medivac - the man looked ready to implode. Gibbs guessed that Vance had figured prominently in that decision as well.

Though the Patuxent Naval Hospital was closer, it was a small concern with just 10 beds for inpatient care, so it was quickly determined that Bethesda Naval Hospital was better equipped to handle gunshot wounds and a possible serious brain trauma.

When Caldwell insisted he be allowed to travel with them on the chopper, Gibbs agreed. With the assurance that, if it was necessary to adjust the ballast during the turbulent return flight, he would personally guarantee that Caldwell's ass was the first thing tossed out the door. Shortly thereafter, Fornell boarded the flight as the Bureau's sole representative.

The former Marine had begrudgingly allowed a corpsman to clean and dress his own injury during the flight. Though the bullet graze on his arm hurt like hell, Gibbs had refused any form of pain relief, needing to stay one step ahead of Caldwell.

Thirty minutes later, Gibbs felt like he was caught in some sadistic time loop when, once again, he found himself completing Tony's medical information and hospital admission papers. His agent had been unconscious from the time he'd passed out on the roof of the warehouse, throughout the emergency flight to Bethesda and as they whisked him into the trauma room and out of Gibbs' sight.

His team sat quietly, speaking in hushed tones and drawing strength from one another as they waited for news of Tony's condition. Well-known and held in high esteem at Bethesda, Ducky had used his contacts and disappeared down the corridor toward the trauma rooms and operating theatres – no doubt gathering medical intel on Tony.

Fornell returned with coffee, offering Gibbs a cup. Taking a cautious sip of his own hot beverage he raised his eyebrows in a silent query.

"No news yet, Ducky's gone to get an update," Gibbs replied. "What the hell happened, Tobias? Why would Timmins authorise a sniper when there's no proof that DiNozzo's guilty?"

"The order didn't come from Timmins," Fornell said. "I've been doing some checking, Caldwell has some very influential friends, including a Senior Senator who has pledged his endorsement of Caldwell in the coming congressional elections."

"What does a Senator have to do with this?"

"The Senator used his considerable influence with the Attorney General to authorise the move against DiNozzo. Timmins is furious about being left out of the loop."

"Who authorised the damn sniper?" Gibbs growled.

"From what I can gather, the Attorney General has given Caldwell carte blanche in this matter. He's running his own show and he's determined to use DiNozzo to make a name for himself prior to the election."

"The hell he will," Gibbs muttered.

Gibbs watched as his old friend picked up a discarded copy of yesterday's Post and turned to the jumbo crossword puzzle as he took a seat in the waiting room. While he was sure Fornell's presence was at the request of his agency's director, Gibbs had no doubt that the FBI agent was also here as a friend.

Across the room, Ziva stood in front of the large windows, watching the spectacular electrical storm. Still damp from her earlier drenching, she crossed her arms to hug herself and absently rubbed her shoulders to keep warm. Lost in thought, she caught McGee's reflection as he walked toward her and nodded gratefully as he draped a blanket around her shoulders.

"Toda, McGee," she said quietly.

"You okay, Ziva?"

"I am fine," she replied with a forced smile.

McGee moved awkwardly from foot to foot, lowering his gaze to the floor. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"When we were on the roof…and you were, you know, aiming your weapon at Tony…you weren't really going to shoot him, right?"

She turned to her partner with an unreadable expression on her face. "I would have done what was necessary," she replied calmly.

McGee frowned in disbelief. "Are you…are you saying that you would have shot Tony?"

"McGee," Ziva said firmly, her dark eyes flashing with mixed emotions. "If Tony had shot Gibbs, what do you think would have happened?"

"The sniper would have shot Tony."

"And we would have lost them both," she replied angrily, shrugging the blanket from her shoulders. "I would have done what was necessary."

Stunned by her words McGee watched her leave the waiting room and press the elevator call button. Arriving on the ground floor, she walked quickly through the lobby and onto the sidewalk. Her body trembled from more than the cold as she took several deep breaths, overwhelmingly relieved that she had not been forced to take one life, to save the other. Calling upon her years of Mossad training she viciously suppressed a sob as she repeated her admission.

"I would have shot you, Tony," she whispered. "God forgive me, I would have shot you."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Another thirty minutes went by before Ducky's compassionate blue eyes took in the worried faces of his friends as he made his way back into the waiting room.

"Ducky?" Gibbs said.

"I have just spoken to Commander Fenner. You may recall that he was the doctor assigned to treat Tony when he was admitted after being hit by the car. Good Lord, was that only a week ago? I don't know about you but I feel like…"

"Ducky…how's Tony?" Gibbs asked.

"They are prepping him for surgery now. X-rays on his shoulder have shown that his left clavicle is broken and the bullet has lodged in his shoulder blade," the ME explained. "His doctor's will have a better idea of muscle and tissue damage once the surgery is over."

"What about his head injury," McGee asked. "Is he conscious?"

"Did he remember you, Ducky?" Abby asked, swiping away a traitorous tear.

"I'm afraid the lad hasn't regained consciousness yet, my dear," Ducky told her, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

"Duck? He's been out nearly two hours…what's going on?"

The medical examiner sighed deeply.

"Anthony's head CT's and MRI's have indicated that he has suffered a subdural haemorrhage and substantial swelling to his temporal lobe. This has caused considerable intracranial pressure."

"This could be the cause of his amnesia, yes?" Ziva asked.

"They are contributing factors, yes, my dear," Ducky replied. "Although I have no doubt the primary cause is two severe blunt force traumas to the same side of Anthony's skull, within a short period of time."

"They can treat it though, right, Ducky?" Abby asked, trying to maintain the fragile hold on her composure.

"Yes, Abigail, I'm sure Anthony's doctors will do whatever they can to help him. While our young man is under the anaesthetic, the doctors will insert a small temporary catheter through a tiny hole drilled through his skull, to remove the abnormal collection of blood between the dura and the arachnoid…"

"They're drilling a hole in his head, Duck!" Gibbs exclaimed.

"Oh, it's quite safe, Jethro, and it will help reduce the pressure on Anthony's brain. It's quite a common procedure and Anthony's doctors are very highly thought of in their chosen fields."

"When can we see him?" Gibbs asked, pushing from his mind the thought of someone drilling through his agent's skull.

"Not until morning, I should think. His surgery will take about three hours and I would expect they'll keep a close watch on him in the recovery ward for several more."

"Any news on Salinas, Doctor?" Fornell asked.

"I believe they have just returned him to the post-op ward," Ducky replied. "His injury was relatively minor in the scheme of things."

"We want to talk to him as soon as we can, Duck," Gibbs said.

"I'll pass that on to his doctors," the ME replied. "In the meantime, you all look thoroughly exhausted. Go home and rest, there's nothing you can do for Anthony tonight. I'll stay with him and I'll call you if there is any change."

"I need to contact Interpol, they may have been able to establish a money trail from the prison officials in El Salvador to Matteo Lopez," Ziva said.

"I'd need to check-in with Agent Mailley." McGee offered. "See whether Lopez has made contact with the Customs Officer, Brian Wallace."

"And I need to check Tony's gun for prints, bloodstain patterns and gunpowder residue," Abby replied.

Gibbs' face was implacable but his eyes softened. Watching his team pull together to help one of their own provided some of his proudest moments. He nodded his agreement.

"Pick up some food on the way and make sure you all take a break before you even think about coming back here tomorrow."

Soft-soled shoes were heard padding quickly down the corridor toward them and a breathless nurse appeared.

"Thank heavens you're still here, I thought I'd missed you."

"Is there a problem with Anthony, my dear?" Ducky asked.

"Oh, no, Doctor, they're operating now. Commander Fenner asked me to give this to Agent Gibbs," she explained. "It fell out of the bag containing Agent DiNozzo's clothes. We were very careful not to touch it."

She extended the clear plastic bag in her hand and their hearts collectively sunk as they saw the stack of hundred dollar bills.

"Well, isn't this nice?" Caldwell's voice sounded. "Still think DiNozzo's not on the take, Gibbs?"

**00—oo00oo—o00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Handing the plastic bag containing the cash to Abby for testing, Gibbs sent his team back to the Navy Yard and turned his attention to Caldwell who was demanding to speak with Tony's doctors.

"I'm afraid Anthony's doctor is unavailable for the moment, Agent Caldwell," Ducky said, curtly. "He is busy attempting to save the young man's life."

"From a shoulder wound? Come now, Doctor Mallard, I may not have your medical background but I know that people rarely die from a shoulder wound."

"For your information, my good man, Anthony is also suffering from a subdural haemorrhage and severe swelling to his temporal lobe. This is likely responsible for any memory loss and his altered personality."

Caldwell looked incredulously at Gibbs and Ducky.

"Oh this is priceless. Your guy has been implicated in the deaths of two of my agents. We have reason to believe that he killed a leading crime-figure in a weapons smuggling organization and was leading it himself. We caught him red-handed at the warehouse tonight, with a suspicious amount of cash…and you expect me to take your word that he's suffering from what… amnesia?"

"You are an investigator, Agent Caldwell, are you not?" Ducky asked, without waiting for an answer. "Might I suggest you investigate _all_ of the evidence at hand, not just that which serves your personal agenda."

"When can I question him?"

"When hell freezes over!" Gibbs snapped.

"Now, Jethro…I understand that you're a little hot under the collar but there's no reason to be uncivilized," Ducky chided.

"I'm not interested in your trite platitudes, Doctor, I want an answer to my question," Caldwell said condescendingly. "_When_ can I question DiNozzo?"

"When hell freezes over," Ducky repeated, as Fornell choked back a chortle.

"What the hell did you expect, Caldwell? You shot my agent!" Gibbs said.

"I did not!" Caldwell argued.

"You ordered him shot! You wanna argue semantics? If DiNozzo hadn't been falling when your man fired, the bullet would have pierced his heart."

"At least we didn't shoot him in the back like he did to two of mine!"

"That is enough from both of you! Must I remind you that this is a hospital?" Ducky hissed. "Anthony will not be in any condition to be questioned until tomorrow and that will be at the discretion of his doctors."

Caldwell turned to Fornell. "I want two men placed at the door to DiNozzo's room. I want to know the minute he's awake."

Fornell nodded curtly and watched as Caldwell stalked down the corridor toward the exit.

"Wretched man!" Ducky muttered to Fornell. "I don't know how you tolerate him."

"At the moment, I have no choice, he's still the FBI's lead agent on this case."

"Yeah, well your whole investigation's been a goat rope since he took over," Gibbs replied. "I need to get back. Duck, call me if there's any news."

"Of course, Jethro," Ducky said. Gibbs looked once more down the corridor toward the operating theatres; then he reluctantly returned to the Navy Yard.

"Well, doctor, looks like you and I have the nightshift," Fornell said. "You any good at crossword puzzles?"

"Am I any good at crossword puzzles?" Ducky said, taking Fornell by the elbow and leading him to the chairs in the waiting room. "My good man, have I ever told you about the time…."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The pizza they'd eaten at their desks was hardly the nutritious meal Ducky would have wished for them but it was enough to tide them over for a short while.

Ziva's Interpol contact had nothing new to report regarding the money trail to the El Salvador prison officials and McGee had spoken with Agent Mailley, who advised that Lopez had made no attempt to contact Customs Officer Wallace.

"There's something else," McGee said. "The pilot of Lopez' private jet has logged a flight plan to Central America for the day after tomorrow. There's no return flight logged. Boss, he's not planning on coming back."

"Call Mailley, tell him to bring Wallace in," Gibbs said, rounding his desk.

"Now? It's zero five hundred!" The glare from the lead agent put an abrupt stop to any further protest. "And the day's a-wasting! Calling Agent Mailley, Boss."

"You two take a break - take a shower, go for a run, put your head down for an hour. I don't care how you do it but do it. I got one agent in the hospital, that's more than enough. I'll be with Abby."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

As Gibbs approached the forensics lab, he recalled Tony joking with Abby a few weeks ago. He told her that if she had worked with him aboard the USS Seahawk, the captain would have asked her to turn her music down so he could hear his jets taking off and landing. Despite the number of times his head had nearly exploded from the volume of Abby's music, Gibbs couldn't get used to walking into a quiet lab – it just wasn't right.

He looked around the cavernous lab and found Abby urging her "babies" to work faster. Like McGee and Ziva, Abby looked totally spent.

"Abs?"

"Gibbs!" She said, her pigtails flying as she spun to face him. "You're early, my babies haven't called me yet! You don't suppose that darn dinger's damaged again?"

A loud ding sounded from one of Abby's computers.

"How do you _do_ that?" she asked. "No! Don't tell me…you're Gibbs. Some things in life have no answer. Like…why dogs hate it when you blow in their face but the first thing they do is stick their heads out the window of your car…or why it's impossible to sneeze with your eyes open…or, like, why snails can sleep for three years without eating."

Gibbs smiled gently. "Where's your buddy?"

"Norman? He went to update the FBI on our test results."

"I thought his name was Robert Hennessy," Gibbs asked with a frown.

"It is but I call him Norman, you know, after Norman Bates from Psycho. He's usually lurking in the shadows and watching my every move. Whenever I turn around, there he is! It's kinda creepy."

"Thought you liked creepy?"

"Oh, I _love_ creepy, I'm just not used to anyone but you sneaking up behind me. I'm thinking that maybe I need to tie a bell around his neck."

"He know his stuff?"

"Oh, yes, he's very smart, Gibbs, we're just very different – not that that's bad, it's just…"

"Different."

"Exactly! He rarely speaks, he hates Caf-Pow, he _never_ _ever_ talks to his equipment and he's never even heard of the Hammer-headed Zombie Cats!"

"Imagine that," Gibbs quipped. "You got something for me, Abs?"

"Oh…right! Firstly, our gunpowder analysis showed that Tony's weapon has not been fired for at least two days but the only fingerprints on the gun belong to Tony," Abby said.

Gibbs sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped. He'd desperately been hoping for proof that someone other than Tony had handled his weapon.

"We were able to lift good partial prints from two others but they are fabric prints."

"Gloves," he said, not hiding his disappointment. "Those could belong to Tony for all we know."

"Well, maybe one set but it's unlikely that Tony would have two sets of gloves – although, he does have more pairs of shoes than any other man I have ever met - except Palmer, of course."

With a few keystrokes, the two fabric prints appeared side by side of the plasma screen.

"The print on the right looks like genuine leather. See how the texture is less consistent than the one on the left – that's because the one on the left is probably some kind of PVC or faux leather. I can't give you an ID but if you find me the gloves, I can definitely match the prints. If they were wearing the gloves when they fired the weapon, we should also find gunpowder residue that we could match to the weapon and blood that we can match to Torres."

"I'll check with Ducky, see if Torres had any gloves on him when he was brought in."

"I already checked – he didn't," Abby said. "But the genuine leather print we lifted from the gun, matches a print we found on the bank strap on the money. Tony's prints were also on the money."

"But no ID other than Tony's," Gibbs stated.

"Not until we get a glove – I'm sorry, Gibbs."

"Not your fault, Abs," he said, wrapping her in a hug.

"How's Tony?"

"Ducky called. He's out of surgery and in recovery, he'll be there for a few hours."

"Can I see him?"

"Maybe later," Gibbs said, walking her through the sliding glass doors into the other section of the lab. "But there is something you can do for him."

"What is it, Gibbs, you know I'll do anything for Tony."

She looked at him with eyes that were red-rimmed from fatigue as he reached under her workbench and laid her futon on the floor.

"Sleep. Last thing DiNozzo needs is to be worrying about you passing out from exhaustion."

"Just for a little while - and only if you promise to wake me the minute I can see Tony."

"Promise," he whispered, giving her a kiss on the forehead and helping her to the floor. He stepped away for a moment, returning a few seconds later with a blanket and a well loved, flatulent, stuffed hippo. Once Abby was settled, he dimmed the lights, locked the door on his way out and left to meet Ducky at Bethesda.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Senior US Customs Officer, Brian Wallace wiped his brow as he sat nervously in the interrogation room. He started as the door suddenly opened and Ziva walked in taking a seat across the table from him.

"Mr Wallace, I am Special Agent David."

"What is this all about Agent David? What can be so important that NCIS has to drag me out of bed at zero five thirty?"

"Agent Mailley did not tell you?"

"Agent Mailley, said he didn't know. That he was just following orders to pick me up and drive me here. Now, if you can't tell me why I'm here and I haven't been charged with anything, I'm calling my attorney and I'm leaving!"

"Let me start at the beginning," Ziva replied. "We are conducting inquiries into the…"

Her explanation was interrupted by the shrill of Wallace's cell.

"Perhaps you should get that."

"I'll call them back," Wallace said, curtly. "It's probably just my wife."

Ziva smiled briefly but the smile disappeared and her dark eyes impaled the Customs Officer.

"Let me put it another way…you _will _answer the call!"

Wallace reached for his cell; his eyes darted nervously from Ziva to the caller ID that read – _Carlos Torres._ Beads of sweat appeared at the man's temples and in an act of defiance he quickly rejected the call.

"Like I said, I'll call them back later," Wallace said with a nervous grin.

"That may prove difficult," Ziva said, coldly. "You see, Mr Wallace, Carlos Torres is in our morgue with a bullet in his head."

"Torres? I…I don't know anyone named Torres."

He turned toward the door as McGee walked in, holding a cell in his gloved hand.

"Before you say anything more, let me introduce you to my partner, Special Agent McGee. He is holding the cell that once belonged to Carlos Torres," Ziva said. "Your name and that cell number were found in the logs of Torres' cell."

"No…there must be some mistake," Wallace spluttered.

McGee placed a printout of the phone records on the table for Wallace to see.

"Torres' call records indicate that he called the number of the disposable cell you have in your possession, thirteen times during the last three months," McGee said.

Wallace paled noticeably.

"Torres received eight calls from your cell, four of those calls came just forty-eight hours before Customs conducted random searches on Lopez Industries shipping containers."

"I think now would be a good time for you to call your attorney, yes?" Ziva said.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"Got your message, Duck, how's he doing?"

"The surgery went very well, Jethro," Ducky said proudly. "Anthony is still in recovery but I've managed to persuade the nursing staff to allow us to look in on him."

Ducky led Gibbs into a small, darkened room, filled with machines and equipment that were all connected in one way or another to the pale, unmoving form in the bed. His gut twisted painfully as he took in the sight before him.

Tony's left shoulder was heavily bandaged, his arm strapped across his chest to immobilise it.

"How bad's the shoulder?" he asked.

"The bullet snapped Anthony's clavicle before lodging in his shoulder blade. They had to insert a small titanium pin to hold his clavicle together. The bullet also did some damage to his trapezius muscle that will take quite some time to heal. It is a very painful injury and he'll have to wear a shoulder brace and a sling but, with rest and physiotherapy, he should regain full use of his shoulder in ten to twelve weeks."

Gibbs nodded, already anticipating the fight he would have on his hands, keeping the younger man from rushing his recovery and returning to work before he was ready.

"Bout time you lost the whiskers," Gibbs said quietly to the unconscious man. He felt strangely relieved to see his agent clean-shaven. The loss of Tony's light beard gave him a younger but gaunter appearance. Though he knew it was irrational, the loss of the beard somehow represented the departure of Bricker and the return of DiNozzo.

"The nurses shaved him when they prepped him for surgery," Ducky replied.

Gibbs looked at the tiny biomedical electrodes adhered to his agent's head and connected to a monitor by lead-wires and cables. Taking a deep breath, he asked.

"What's with the hardware? He in a coma, Duck?"

"Oh, my goodness, no! Anthony's doctors have placed him under heavy sedation for a few hours while the anti-inflammatory drugs attempt to reduce the swelling in his brain. The EEG is monitoring his brain patterns in case of unexpected complications."

"Brain damage," Gibbs said, hating the sound of the words.

"It's just a precaution, my friend," Ducky assured him. "His doctors will call by later and answer any questions you may have."

"Did he regain consciousness?"

"I'm afraid not. We'll have to wait until the doctors stop sedating him and the lad wakes up, that should be…oh my is that the time…that should be later today," Ducky replied, cringing as he checked his watch and noticed it was zero six hundred.

The two men stood watching the rise and fall of Tony's chest, relieved to have him back with them but concerned about what the future held in store.

"Timothy and Ziva told me that Anthony threatened to shoot you."

"He wouldn't have fired, Duck. He was confused, he didn't know me."

"You took a very big chance, Jethro. You were both very lucky."

"There was a moment on the roof, before he passed out," Gibbs cleared his throat and tried again. "Couldn't hear much up there but he looked at me like…I think he remembered."

"It's very possible. Memory loss associated with head trauma can be very unpredictable. Some memories return quickly and in full, others never return."

"What if he wakes up and still doesn't know who he is?"

"Just give him time, Jethro."

"I'll give him all the time he needs, but Caldwell's pushing hard. He wants Tony charged with the murder of those agents."

"Then do what you always do when someone threatens our Anthony," Ducky said with a devious grin. "Push back harder."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**Thanks for reading and to those of you who have taken a moment to review - your thoughtfulness and feedback is greatly appreciated. Tony regains consciousness next chapter - I hope you join me, L**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 24**

Leaving Ducky to watch over Tony, Gibbs met Fornell standing outside Salinas' room.

"Ten minutes, gentlemen," the stern looking nurse reminded Gibbs and Fornell as they entered the hospital room.

They found Salinas sitting up in the bed, his heavily bandaged thigh propped up on a pillow. His left hand was connected to an IV while his right was handcuffed to the bed. Two FBI agents stood guard - one outside the door and one in the corner of the room. The senior agents introduced themselves and Fornell produced a small recording device as they began their interrogation.

Salinas' biggest concern was that he would be extradited back to El Salvador to resume his thirty-year sentence in Chalatenango prison. Fornell agreed to speak with the Attorney General's office about cutting a deal if he co-operated fully.

Prison officials had offered Salinas early release on the condition he worked for the El Salvador Resistencia Revolucionario. Daily murders, beatings, over-crowding and oppressive conditions within the prison had made the choice an easy one and within a week he found himself, with eleven other ex-prisoners, on a container ship and bound for the US. Many more ex-prisoners stayed in El Salvador to prepare for the insurgence.

Carlos Torres had met the ship and taken the men to their base - a large home in Alexandria. Salinas told the agents of the nights spent assembling inferior look-alike weapons and ordnance that were illegally imported from Central America and exchanged with quality COL products. The quality weapons and ordnance would be used by the ESRR or sold on the black market for three times the value to fund more ESRR operations.

Salinas identified a photo of FBI Agent Ray Sanchez as his undercover persona, Ray Nunez. He also identified Tony as Gus Bricker and appeared shocked to learn that both men were federal agents. He was certain both had maintained their covers – had Torres even suspected they were feds he would have summarily killed them both.

Immediately after the warehouse explosion that killed Sanchez, they had found Tony seriously injured and unconscious at the opposite end of the warehouse. This corroborated forensic evidence of Tony's blood and DNA that had been located at the opposite end of the warehouse to Sanchez' body and cleared him of any involvement in Sanchez' death.

When the agents were shot at the Springfield warehouse, Salinas and Diaz had already left for their Alexandria base in the delivery truck and Salinas could not confirm or deny Tony's involvement in the shootings.

Gibbs felt his frustration level increase ten-fold, knowing that they had not cleared Tony of shooting the FBI agents. However, when Salinas told them that he had witnessed Matteo Lopez pick up Tony's Beretta and fire a bullet, point blank into the back of Torres' skull, Gibbs felt that they were finally making some ground in their battle to clear Tony's name.

He provided the agents with the address of their large Alexandria base and advised them that the six-car garage still housed a large cache of weapons that Lopez was desperate to ship to El Salvador. Most of the weapons were the quality COL products but, when the last weapons exchange failed, they had returned a shipment of inferior goods to the garage without Lopez' knowledge.

The scowling nurse made another appearance at the door and the agents completed their interrogation. As they exited the room, Gibbs exhaled loudly and carded his fingers through his hair.

"What do you think?" Fornell said.

"He's looking to avoid extradition," Gibbs replied. "It's in his best interest to tell the truth."

"He's also desperate to stay out of Chalatenango prison," Fornell replied. "That's a hell of a reason to tell us what he thinks we want to hear. Sanchez' death may have been accidental but we only have Salinas' word that Lopez killed Torres and we still haven't cleared DiNozzo of the other shootings. We've got a lot to do before DiNozzo's in the clear."

"Damn it, Tobias! Tony didn't shoot those agents!" Gibbs snapped.

"I'm not saying he did, I'm just saying we haven't cleared him yet," Fornell replied, looking closely at his friend. "When was the last time you slept?"

Ignoring the question and brushing aside Fornell's concern, Gibbs continued.

"Lopez has booked a flight plan for the day after tomorrow. If he wants those weapons on the cargo freighter tomorrow, he's gonna have to move them to the shipping yard later today. We send a team to stake out the house in Alexandria and we wait for him to make contact with the customs official, Wallace."

"And if he doesn't?"

"We take him at the airport on suspicion of Torres' murder."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

As Gibbs drove back to the Navy Yard he received a call from Vance. The director informed him that the CIA was petitioning for authority to take Lopez into custody to offer him a deal in return for information on the other men financing the ESRR insurgence. No decision had been reached but Vance warned Gibbs that time was running out.

Arriving back in the bullpen, Ziva and McGee briefed Gibbs on their interrogation of Wallace. The Senior US Customs Officer had completely unravelled when they read him his rights. He had received ten thousand dollars cash, each time he warned Torres of an impending random Customs search. On other occasions, he had falsified records to show that the Lopez Industries containers had been cleared by Customs, when they had not been checked. This allowed the weapons, ordnance and, in some cases, illegal immigrants, to come in and out of the country undetected.

Wallace maintained that Torres had been his only point of contact. He had never met or spoken to Matteo Lopez.

"Lopez must know by now that the operation at COL failed," Ziva said. "He will be desperate to get the weapons he already has accumulated, onto the freighter and out of the country."

"Boss, I was thinking…"

"No!"

"You haven't even heard my idea," McGee argued.

"You're gonna remind me that Lopez has never met Wallace. Then you'll tell me that Wallace is about your age and build and that you could pose as Wallace and set up a meet if Lopez calls."

"It makes sense!"

"No…last man I put undercover on this case is lying in the hospital with a bullet wound to his shoulder and a hole drilled in his skull!"

"Lopez is leaving the country the day after tomorrow," McGee stressed.

"He is right, Gibbs," Ziva said. "We already know the CIA will offer Lopez immunity to name his partners. He will never stand trial for what he did."

"I'll have a wire and an ear-wig and you and Ziva will be right there backing me up. I need to do this, Boss…for Aaron and Tony...I can do this."

Gibbs glared at his agent for an interminable period before making his decision.

"Have Abby make you a fake ID and ask her and Palmer to do something to cover those bruises on your face."

"Palmer?"

"Ducky says Palmer worked one summer assisting a mortuary make-up artist."

"Mortuary artist?"

"Is there an echo in here, McGee?"

"Er, no, sorry, Boss."

"Go! But if Palmer and Abby can't cover those bruises, it's not happening. We clear?"

"Boss, if Tony finds out about the make-up I'll never hear the end of it."

"Are we clear, McGee?" Gibbs repeated.

"Crystal," he said sullenly. "But between Abby and the Autopsy Gremlin, don't blame me if I wind up looking like the love-child of Edward Scissorhands and the Corpse Bride."

"_What?"_ Gibbs asked.

"Never mind...just a little movie reference...Tony would've liked it!" McGee replied, noting the lead agent's exasperated look. "I'll...just go see Abby."

Gibbs scrubbed his face with his hands. This case had already cost the lives of several Marines and three federal agents, with two agents still critically injured. As he watched McGee enter the elevator, he hoped to God that he'd made the right decision.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

"McGee's a highly capable agent but undercover isn't his specialty," Vance stated. "Are you sure he's up to this?"

"He is," Gibbs replied matter-of-factly.

"I hope so. With DiNozzo still in over his head and Morrison's funeral service in a few days we've got more than enough to deal with at the moment."

"Agreed."

"So, what's the plan?"

"Lopez plans to leave the country day after tomorrow. He's gonna need to arrange to get his weapons loaded a.s.a.p."

"And you're counting on him contacting Wallace?"

"There's no other way that he can avoid a Customs check. Once he makes contact, McGee will arrange a meet and demand upfront payment."

"When Lopez hands over the money, you'll move in," Vance said. "That should work. What's happening with DiNozzo? I'm guessing Ms Scuito's report is not going to reflect kindly on him."

"Tony's prints were the only ones lifted from his weapon and the bank strap on the money. Looks like the others wore gloves."

"That's gonna make Caldwell's day," Vance muttered.

"Salinas has gone on record stating he witnessed Lopez murder Torres."

"The word of a known criminal facing extradition against a successful businessman isn't going to cut any ice. We'll need more than that to get a conviction and it doesn't get DiNozzo's off the hook for the murder of the other agents."

"Was never on the hook as far as I'm concerned."

"Yeah, well, Caldwell doesn't agree. The chat on the Hill is that if he makes an arrest in this case, he'll already have one foot on the victory dais on Election Day."

Gibbs' cell phone sounded and he snatched it up quickly, answering with a brusque, "Gibbs." The call ended quickly and Gibbs explained.

"That was Ducky. Caldwell's is demanding to see DiNozzo."

"He's still unconscious," Vance said.

"That won't stop, Caldwell!"

"Go! Keep me informed."

**00-oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Just when he thought the events of the last few weeks couldn't get any worse, the former Marine's eyes widened as he recognised Jimmy Palmer's raised voice coming from the waiting area outside DiNozzo's room. Hurrying around the corner he stopped short, seeing the young ME stuck in the middle of a standoff between the two Marines guarding the door and two FBI agents trying to gain entry.

"Don't let the glasses fool ya, nimrod. You guys wanna mix it up a little? We'll kick your candy asses," Jimmy taunted, not perturbed when the two dumbfounded FBI agents exchanged bemused glances. "Ah, not so tough now are you?"

Fortunately for Palmer, the two Marines had strategically placed themselves at his shoulders, the foreboding looks on their faces was keeping the agents at bay.

"Palmer," Gibbs called, with a calmness that belied the whole farcical situation.

"Oh, Agent Gibbs!" he said noticing the lead agent for the first time. He turned his attention back to the FBI agents and added politely. "Excuse me, I'll just be a minute."

Gibbs took his elbow and steered him to the other side of the room before delivering a well-placed head slap.

"_What the hell are you doing?"_ he hissed.

"Oh, you mean that?" Jimmy replied, pointing to where the standoff was still taking place. "Tony told me, if ever I got into a situation that could get physical, I should never let the other guy know I'm scared."

"_He tell ya to commit suicide instead?"_

The young ME cringed. "You think it was too much?"

"Oh, I don't know, Palmer," Gibbs drawled. "What do you think those guys would do to you if those two Marines weren't there?"

"They would…probably hang me by my feet and beat me like a piñata."

"Ya think?" Gibbs rubbed his hand over tired eyes. "Where's Ducky?"

"He's with Tony. Doctor Mallard thinks Tony's starting to wake up and he asked me to stall Agent Caldwell and his men for as long as I could," Jimmy's faced blushed brightly. "I should probably tell you that Agent Caldwell was furious. He's currently with the hospital administrator trying to gain access to Tony's room. He said he's going to lodge a complaint about me with Director Vance…I really hope I don't get fired."

"Those agents get their hands on you, getting fired won't be a problem."

Palmer looked back to where the two large agents stood watching him menacingly.

"Um, Agent Gibbs, I hate to put you to any trouble…but after you've seen Tony, do you think you can walk me to my car?"

Gibbs patted the young man on the shoulder and walked him back to the protection of the Marines.

"I'll be with Ducky, let me know when Caldwell gets back...and Palmer…good job."

The young ME positively beamed at the rare words of praise from the lead agent before resuming his position and continuing where he left off.

As Gibbs entered Tony's room, he rolled his eyes as Palmer's voice rang out again.

"Don't eyeball me, meathead!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

"Ducky?" Gibbs called softly in deference to his sleeping agent. He was relieved to see the EEG and electrodes had been removed and took that as a sign that Tony's condition had stabilised.

"Ah, Jethro," Ducky whispered. "Your timing is perfect as usual, Anthony started to stir a short while ago. He should be waking up shortly."

"Good work deflecting Caldwell."

"Yes, well young Mr Palmer can take the credit for that. I'm afraid he's taken to his task with a little more vigour than I expected. It was Mark Twain who once said, "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog."

"You'll wanna hope he's a greyhound if those agents see him without his Marine buddies."

"I believe he is quite fleet of foot…and he feels very protective of Anthony," the elderly ME stated. "Oh, by the way, I have completed the psychological profile on Matteo Lopez that you requested."

"Thanks, Duck. You get any sleep?"

"Oh yes, Anthony and I managed to snooze for a good few hours, didn't we, young man, hmm?" Ducky asked the sleeping man as he straightened the blankets on the bed.

He watched keenly as Tony's brow furrowed, his breathing quickened and he licked his dry lips. Recognising the signs of waking, Ducky pressed the call button and readied a glass of ice water from the jug on the nightstand. Keeping his voice calm and low, he called the long form of Tony's name, trying to entice him into consciousness.

The younger man could hear the voice, could hear a name being called but he was in no great hurry to open his eyes and come away from the dark comfort he found himself in. The voice was persistent, gentle and welcoming and it drew him to its warmth. Heavy eyelids fluttered open to reveal slithers of green and then closed again.

Commander Fenner entered the room, standing by Tony's bed as he cast a trained eye over the monitor read-outs and his patient.

"Did he wake up?" Fenner asked.

"He's certainly trying, aren't you my boy?" Ducky asked, gently squeezing Tony's long fingers in his warm hand.

Tony's forehead wrinkled again and this time his eyes opened. Blinking owlishly as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Not fully cognizant, confusion overwhelmed him and his bleary eyes darted around the room, panic-filled and disoriented yet searching for something, or someone, to lock onto. Expression that was equal parts confusion and pain, distorted his features.

"Tony, it's Doctor Fenner. I need you to calm down, you're in the hospital and you're going to be fine."

Gibbs stepped forward into Tony's line of sight. He saw the fear and confusion in his agent's eyes but when the haze of his panic lifted and green eyes focussed on blue, they reflected a measure of trust reserved for no other. For a moment, words passed unsaid but even as he watched, Tony's eyelids drooped. After each blink, the eyelids opened less and less, until finally, they stayed closed.

"Doc?"

"Seems he wasn't quite ready to join us after all," the doctor replied. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to step outside while I examine him. But you should know…I have been instructed by the hospital administrator, to allow Agent Caldwell to question Tony as soon as he's awake."

"Is that wise, Doctor?" Ducky asked.

"Wise? Not really - but necessary I'm afraid. This is a Naval hospital and the orders come from SecNav," Fenner advised. "I'll let you know when I'm finished my examination."

Ducky and Gibbs reluctantly left Tony with the doctor and joined Palmer and the Marines outside the room.

Gibbs' face was implacable but his eyes told of his concern for his agent.

"I think you have your answer, Jethro," Ducky said with a small smile.

Gibbs raised a quizzical eyebrow, confused by the ME's comment.

"You told me that when you were on the roof of that warehouse, you weren't sure whether Anthony recognised you. Well, he may not have uttered a word just now but the look in his eyes said it all…I believe our young man is back."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00 **

The atmosphere in the waiting room was decidedly icy when Senior FBI Agent Larry Caldwell and his men returned and took a seat across from Gibbs and the ME's. Gibbs had called Vance and confirmed that, according to SOP's, SecNav had no choice but to sanction the FBI's questioning of DiNozzo. Although the use of the term "neutral" agency brought a silent curse to the lead agent's lips.

All heads turned in the direction of Tony's room as Commander Fenner exited and walked toward them.

"Agent DiNozzo has regained consciousness and is resting," the doctor reported.

"Doctor, was he able to tell you who he is?" Ducky asked.

"Yes, he was," Fenner smiled; glad to be able to impart some good news. "He told me his name, his date of birth, his occupation…I'm afraid he wasn't able to tell me what day it is or how he got here. In fact, from what I've been able to ascertain, he has suffered memory loss of several days, perhaps a week."

"How damned convenient," scoffed the senior FBI agent.

Gibbs swallowed the rage that tried to choke him and forced himself to focus on the doctor's words.

"Memory loss is quite common with this type of injury, particularly as Tony has suffered two major head traumas within a short period of time. We will need to do some more scans a little later – I want to closely monitor the swelling and intracranial pressure. His shoulder wound will be very painful for a while but there's no sign of infection or fever."

"This memory loss," Caldwell said, almost spitting the words. "How sure can you be that DiNozzo is not faking?"

"The CT Scans, MRI's, and x-rays are conclusive, Agent Caldwell. If that is not enough for you, I'm sure our leading neurologist will confirm the injury to Tony's temporal lobe, which influences memory function, personality and behaviour. Agent DiNozzo's injuries are very real and very serious."

"I'm not doubting his physical injuries, my question is how can you be certain of the extent of his memory loss?" Caldwell asked. "What kind of medical evidence is available to prove that DiNozzo definitely suffered from amnesia as a result of these injuries?"

"Confusion, amnesia and personality change are common symptoms in serious subdural haemorrhage cases - as are headache, nausea, decreased level of consciousness, speech difficulties, change in mental status, impaired vision or double vision, and weakness."

"But there is no technology available to measure the extent or the longevity of DiNozzo's memory loss, so you are entirely reliant on information received from the patient himself. Am I right?"

"There is a lot about the human brain that we are still learning and…"

"Doctor! Am I right?"

"Yes…we are, by and large, reliant on our discussions with the patient to measure the extent of any memory loss," the doctor divulged.

"Doc, is he up to being questioned?" Gibbs asked,

"If it was up to me, I'd say no – but as this is a murder case with significant political and public interest, I have been ordered to allow Agent Caldwell to question Tony." The doctor turned to face Caldwell, who looked entirely too smug for his liking. "Agent Caldwell, despite the "pull" you appear to have on the Hill, my primary concern is for the wellbeing of my patient. If I believe your questions are causing him undue distress, I will ask you to leave immediately."

"I'd like to talk to him first, let him know what's going on," Gibbs said, preferring to break the news to Tony rather than leaving it to the FBI agent.

"No!" Caldwell said emphatically. "Come on, Gibbs, you know as well as I do that watching a person's reaction to certain information can be as useful as what they say. I do not want you preparing DiNozzo in any way. In fact, I'm not even sure you have the right to be in the room."

"You go near my agent without me and the Doc here will have two patients," Gibbs said thinly veiling the threat with a quirk of his lips.

A moment of thunderous silence followed as the two senior agents refused to relinquish their icy glares. Eventually, Ducky broke the stalemate.

"If this is going to happen, perhaps it's best to get it out of the way now so Anthony can rest."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

They entered Tony's room to find the nurse helping to prop him a little higher in the bed. Despite the care she took with his injured shoulder, the movement invoked gasps of agony and the younger man screwed his eyes closed against the pain.

She spoke to Tony in a voice barely audible to the others and placed the morphine pump into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. With a quick check of the IV drip rate, she gave the men a warning look and left the room.

Tony's eyes were still closed, his dark eyelashes stark against his pale skin and his brow furrowed as he tried to get his breathing under control. As his breathing evened out it looked as though they may lose him to sleep once again.

Ducky walked to Tony's bedside and placed a warm hand on his forearm.

"Anthony? Can you open your eyes for me, my boy?" he said, smiling gently as bleary green eyes began to open.

Blinking rapidly in an attempt to focus, Tony's eyes shifted sluggishly around the room, once again searching for and finding Gibbs. Ducky was sure he'd witnessed an entire conversation exchanged without a word. He marvelled at the extraordinary bond between these two men and the depth of communication they seemed able to express with little more than a glance.

Despite Doctor Fenner's assurance that Tony had regained his identity, until now, Gibbs was uncertain. He was overwhelmed with relief when his agent took a wavering breath and whispered a croaky "Boss."

"Why isn't he in restraints?" Caldwell protested loudly from the back of the room.

"He look like he's going anywhere, Caldwell?" Gibbs countered angrily.

Tony frowned in confusion. "Waz goin'on?" he slurred then looked across to Caldwell. "Who's he?"

Ducky made the introductions, explaining that Caldwell had a few questions to ask about Tony's latest undercover assignment.

Tony gave a slight nod, indicating he understood but his eyes narrowed as he watched his boss and could almost feel the tension radiating from the former Marine.

"Agent DiNozzo, tell me about the objectives of your most recent assignment?" Caldwell asked.

Tony's internal alarm system started ringing in his ears. "This was a joint FBI/NCIS op," he replied warily. "You should know what the objectives were."

"Were? Are you under the impression the assignment is over?" Caldwell asked, intent on proving that Tony was faking his memory loss.

"I'm sitting in a hospital bed, Caldwell, and I have no idea how I got here, so I'm guessing the assignment is over for me," he replied wearily. He turned his attention to Gibbs. "Boss, what's going on, where's Fornell?"

"Tony, what's the last thing you remember?" Gibbs asked.

Tony frowned in concentration, his fingers rubbing his temples as if trying to entice a memory.

"I remember…Carlos Torres putting me through my paces with all kinds of weapons and explosives. I remember…going to a warehouse in…in Fairfax and crating up some C-4 and…" Tony's face froze in a rictus of horror. "There was an explosion…Ray was…Ray was at the far end of the warehouse stacking crates when a box fell…and…oh God!"

Ducky handed Tony a glass of water and held the straw to his lips. "Small sips, Anthony," he coaxed gently.

Tony kept his eyes fixed on an indiscriminate point on the bed as he voiced a question to which, in his heart, he already knew the answer. "Ray's dead?"

"Yes," Gibbs replied, truthfully.

Incapacitated by a torrent of emotion, he closed his eyes and breathed through the throbbing pain in his head.

"What happened after Sanchez' death?" Caldwell asked.

"What?"

"That was a week ago, DiNozzo, what happened after that?" Caldwell repeated impatiently.

"A…a week? I…don't understand. I've been unconscious for a week?"

"Come on, DiNozzo, you can do better than that! You were only admitted to hospital last night – what else happened?"

"Last night?" he said, looking to Gibbs for confirmation.

"We know for a fact, that you were involved in a failed weapons exchange at a warehouse in Springfield three days ago. Furthermore, you used information obtained in your capacity as a federal agent, to break into a weapons manufacturing facility last night and attempt to steal a large amount of weapons."

"No…I wouldn't…I didn't…"

"Two federal agents were killed at the Springfield warehouse and another is not expected to live – two of them were shot with your weapon. How do you explain that?"

"I wasn't there!" Tony said, blood was pumping furiously in his ears and he had to strain to hear anything else.

"We have a statement from your own partner, Special Agent McGee, saying you _were _there!"

"McGee? I don't…I don't remember!"

"Which is it DiNozzo? You weren't there or you don't remember?"

"Someone…someone must have taken my weapon," he said. His hands were shaking, and he clenched his fists to still them.

"Yours were the only prints found on that weapon and on the shell casings," Caldwell continued. "Bullets from your weapon killed one of my agents and critically wounded the other!"

"Boss?" he said turning distressed eyes to his team leader.

"That's enough, Caldwell!" Gibbs snapped.

"There were two FBI agents and two agents from your own agency, only one was not seriously injured – McGee, your partner – quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

Tony's headache was back with an intensity that was mind numbing as a huge wave of tormented emotions assailed him_. 'Is Caldwell right? Did I shoot two agents?'_ The thought caused bile to burn the back of his throat; he swallowed convulsively and then began to retch.

"Out! Now!" Doctor Fenner barked, moving forward he reached for an emesis basin as he and Ducky carefully leaned Tony forward as the younger man began to disgorge the meagre contents of his stomach.

"I need to finish questioning him!" Caldwell protested.

"I warned you, Caldwell, the well-being of my patient comes first. He's had enough, you can come back tomorrow."

"Just give him a shot of something so we can continue!" Caldwell demanded. "The man is responsible for shooting two of my agents!"

Gibbs stood toe to toe with the senior FBI agent. The memory of a sniper's laser dot on Tony's chest had filled him with a terror that still lingered just below his fury. He strangled his voice down to a hiss. "Leave, now!"

Caldwell's mouth tightened with barely restrained anger as he glared into Gibbs' eyes. After a long moment's duel, he fired a scathing look at the doctor. "I demand to be notified the minute he can continue," he said, before turning abruptly and leaving the room.

The doctor administered 5mg of Compazine and moments later the retching mercifully ceased. Gasps of pain and ragged breaths sounded as Fenner and Ducky gently laid the patient back against the pillows.

"That shot will make him drowsy, he should sleep soon," Fenner said. "I'll be back to check on him in a little while."

"I'll join you, Doctor," Ducky said, knowing that despite their combined medical skill and knowledge, there was only one man able to provide the comfort Tony needed at the moment.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

They sat in companionable silence for several moments before Tony spoke.

"Tell me everything…please, Boss," he whispered in a barely audible voice.

Lying had never been an option between them but the reality was painful to voice and in Gibbs' opinion, far too painful for Tony to hear.

"Please," the younger man insisted, his self-control hanging by a gossamer thread.

Gibbs' tightly compressed lips and clenched jaw were softened by the compassion and worry expressed in his eyes as he met his agent's gaze. Then, with his tone coloured with rare emotion, he began to bring his agent up to date with the details of the case.

The ex-detective fought hard to quell his distress as Gibbs told what details they knew of the ill-fated Springfield operation and the death of the agents.

"Morrison?" Tony managed to choke out. "McGee's probie?"

Gibbs nodded and continued the report, watching as guilt and grief tortured the normally genial expression. He momentarily shifted his own eyes to avoid the wretched desolation on the younger man's features as Tony struggled to accept that he might have shot two federal agents.

"What if I did it, Boss?" he asked in a raspy voice, heavy with emotion. "What if I shot those agents?"

"You didn't," Gibbs said definitively.

"_You don't know that_!" Tony hissed angrily, his almost impenetrable emotional barriers nearly at breaking point. "_I was there and I don't even know that, how the hell do you?"_

Gibbs waited until Tony had regained a modicum of composure and then, looking directly into his agent's anguished eyes, he offered his reply with conviction.

"I don't care if you thought you were Gus Bricker in here," he said, gently tapping the younger man's brow. He lowered his hand and tapped Tony firmly on the chest. "In here, you were always Anthony DiNozzo…and Anthony DiNozzo would _never_ shoot a man in the back."

The certainty and belief in the older man's voice was almost Tony's undoing but he pulled back firmly on his emotions with a visibly painful effort. After a moment, he looked at the former Marine...eyes full of things that would probably never be spoken. Gibbs knew that, once again, the words weren't necessary.

Moments passed slowly as Tony's glassy eyes stared into space, the pull of the pain meds ushering him towards sleep. The muscles along his jaw line contracted as he continued to struggle with his emotions.

"I left him, Boss," he whispered. "I left McGee!"

"McGee's fine, Tony," the lead agent assured him.

Bleary, pain-filled green eyes searched deeply into blue, looking for any sign of evasion but finding nothing but truth and honesty.

"Sleep. We'll talk later."

He sat by his agent's side, offering silent support as the medication kicked in and Tony's eyelids grew heavier. As he lost his battle with an exhaustion that even the infamous DiNozzo stubbornness couldn't hold at bay, Gibbs was relieved to see the tortured expression ease into that of innocent sleep.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**A/N:- Regrettably, I will be unable to post updates this weekend. Will continue the story ASAP. Many thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed that chapter, L**


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

_A/N:- Thanks for your patience and support. Two chapters to go after this one...I hope you enjoy them! L_

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 25**

Ducky expected Tony to sleep for several hours so, with two Marines and "Pit-bull" Palmer standing guard outside his hospital room, Ducky and Gibbs returned to the Navy Yard. They were en-route when McGee called Gibbs to let him know that Matteo Lopez had called the burn phone of Customs official Brian Wallace. He had not left his name but he had left a message demanding that Wallace make himself available when he called back in two hours.

Gibbs pressed a little harder on the gas, keener than ever to apprehend the man who had been responsible for such a path of devastation. They arrived back in the bullpen and as they rounded the partition a revitalised Goth scientist greeted them.

"Ta-daa!" Abby exclaimed theatrically as she pointed to McGee. "Doesn't he look great, Gibbs?"

"Adorable," Gibbs said flatly.

He stood in front of the younger man and held him by the chin, turning his head from left to right as he examined his face for telltale signs of bruising.

"Good job, Abs."

"So…I can do it?" McGee asked hopefully.

Gibbs nodded reluctantly and refused the dark thoughts any further licence.

"I won't let you down, Boss."

"I know," Gibbs replied.

With the team gathered together, Ducky, gave them a quick run-down on Tony's condition before advising the results of the psychological profile he'd prepared on Matteo Lopez.

"Behaviour reflects personality," Ducky told them. "On the surface, Matteo Lopez is a very influential and successful businessman, a captain of industry, known as much for his business acumen as for his frequent appearances at A-list social functions. However, beneath the superficial veneer, is a virulent, heartless man who built his considerable wealth on the misfortune of others. This man has known great success and does not tolerate failure. Nor is he used to handling the seedier side of his affairs, when he can have others do his bidding. This is, no doubt, why he engaged the services of the unscrupulous Carlos Torres. He is controlling and domineering and when the weapon exchanges began to go wrong, he felt compelled to handle things himself. The execution style murder of Torres, in front of witnesses, is a significant example of how this man is starting to unravel. He is making critical mistakes and his behaviour is becoming more and more impetuous and reckless."

Gibbs turned to McGee. "Makes him dangerous as hell. If this gets away from you, or you don't think he's gonna go for it, you call it. We can always pick Lopez up at the airport. I don't want you taking unnecessary risks."

"You mean like running into a gun fight without a vest?" McGee replied gamely.

"You still channelling DiNozzo?"

"I figured Tony would have something to say about you risking yourself like that."

Gibbs shrugged. "Probably right," he said. "I'll be with the director."

As he started for the stairs he reached out with his right arm and gave McGee a firm head slap.

"If you're gonna act like DiNozzo, might as well have the full experience."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Gibbs brought the director up to date with Tony's condition and the status of the case.

"You need back-up?"

Gibbs shook his head. "This needs to be done quietly. More people we take in the more chance of a wild shot causing the whole shipment to explode."

"I'll have the EOD standing by and an extra team to help process the crime scene," Vance said. "Lopez reportedly killed Torres in that house, there has to be some evidence we can use."

"EOD can secure and transport the weapons stockpile after we grab Lopez. I'll call it in when we have him. Right now, we're waiting for him to call back."

"You think he will?"

"He's got no choice if he wants those weapons," the lead agent stated.

As Gibbs moved toward the door, he was brought up short when the director called his name. He turned to see a bemused look on Vance's face.

"As director of a federal agency, I deal with bitching and complaining from other agencies all the time. I'm under no illusion that things aren't likely to change on that end. However, those complaints usually involve you or DiNozzo," he said staring at the sheet of paper in his hand. "I have to admit, I never expected to get one about Jimmy Palmer…this has to be a mistake, right?"

"Nope. Palmer was mixing it up with the boys from the Hoover Building…really pissed 'em off."

"What do you think I should do about it?"

"Witness protection program might be an option," Gibbs said with a quirky grin.

"I think I know just how to handle this," Vance said, placing the document in the shredder beside his desk.

Gibbs and Vance were concluding their meeting when the door to the office flew open and Ziva appeared.

"Excuse me, Director," she said a little breathlessly. "Matteo Lopez has just called Wallace's cell. He has arranged a meeting."

"He's early," Vance said.

"He's desperate," Gibbs replied.

"Good luck," Vance said as he watched the agents leave his office he sent up his usual silent prayer for a safe and rapid end to this case.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Exigency compelled Lopez to call the burn phone issued to Customs officer Brian Wallace, for a second time - only this time McGee was waiting. The Salvadoran's voice was outwardly calm and confident but it was laced with a hint of desperation. He needed to get the stockpile of weapons into a container and onto a freighter leaving for El Salvador in two days. Although he had the money, he no longer had the manpower and with Carlos Torres dead his "conduit" to the type of people he needed for the job had been severed.

McGee told Lopez that he could put together a team and arrange transportation – but as it was extremely short notice – the job was going to cost fifty thousand dollars, paid in full, upfront. Lopez arranged a meeting at 1500 at the old boarding house that Lopez' men had used as their base.

Ten minutes prior to the scheduled meeting, Gibbs parked in an alley, half a block from the boarding house. As he, Ziva and McGee climbed from the non-agency issued car, Gibbs reminded his agents that the garage was packed with COL weapons, ammo and explosives but also the final shipment of inferior, highly volatile explosives.

"Whatever happens – do not fire into the garage," he instructed.

They donned their Kevlars and checked their weapons and com-links. Gibbs turned to McGee, noting the younger man was looking slightly anxious.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine, Boss."

"Don't take any chances. If it looks like he's not going to pay you upfront, don't push it. You're supposed to be a customs officer not a career criminal, you argue the point too much and you'll tip him off."

"Right," McGee nodded.

"Watch your six," Gibbs said as he checked his watch and handed McGee the keys to the vehicle. "Give us five minutes to get into position."

He slapped the younger man's shoulder and watched as McGee drove the car out of the alley and down the street out of sight.

Ziva and Gibbs found cover either side of the boarding house with a clear view to the large six-car garage that housed the cache of weapons. At precisely 1500, McGee guided the car into the small square compound between the house and the garage. Leaving the vehicle, he walked into the clearing, waiting for Lopez to arrive – thirty minutes later he was still waiting.

"He's not gonna show, Boss," McGee spoke into his com-link.

"He'll show," came the reply. "He's out of men and out of time. If he wants to ship these weapons, he'll be here."

Ten more minutes passed before Ziva's voice was heard through their earwigs.

"Dark sedan turning into the driveway. Sighting of Matteo Lopez is confirmed – he appears to be alone." She picked up her camera, focussing on Lopez and adjusting the shutter speed to allow her to take multiple frame-by-frame photos.

Parking his car on the opposite side of the compound from McGee's, Matteo Lopez walked confidently to where McGee stood waiting.

"Thought you'd changed your mind," McGee told the older man who arrogantly brushed aside the comment as well as McGee's proffered hand.

Once again, the two men discussed the transportation of the weapons and McGee asked to see the size of the shipment. Lopez removed three heavy-duty padlocks from one of the garage doors and lifted it, revealing hundreds of crates of all sizes, containing weapons and explosives.

McGee made a show of walking into the garage, purportedly estimating the size of the truck and the number of men required to load it and transport it to the Norfolk shipping yard.

"We're taking a huge risk," he said. "It's not going to be easy getting the shipment to the docks then falsifying the clearance certificates."

"Can you do it?" Lopez demanded.

"I can do it, but the men I deal with will expect to be well paid. Do you have the money?"

Lopez stared at the young man before him and, for a moment, McGee thought he was going to refuse. He breathed a sigh of relief when the older man reached into his coat pocket and handed McGee two stacks of cash.

"This is only twenty thousand," McGee said. "The deal was for fifty."

"Twenty thousand now and thirty on delivery," Lopez stated, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

McGee was about to protest when Gibbs' voice sounded through his earwig. "Easy, McGee, don't push it."

"Okay, thirty on delivery," he agreed.

"Photo evidence is secured." McGee heard Ziva confirm. Taking a deep breath, McGee pocketed the cash and withdrew his weapon and badge from inside his jacket.

"Matteo Lopez, you are under arrest for…"

The sentence was never finished as Lopez, driven by rage and desperation, lunged forward and made a grab for McGee's gun. As they struggled for the weapon, Lopez struck McGee a painful blow to the face with the point of his elbow and forced the gun from his grasp. He stepped away from the young agent, taking aim at his head when Gibbs fired off a round from the right side of the house. Pain ripped through the older man's arm causing him to drop the gun and stagger blindly into the garage.

With blood flowing from his nose and split lip, McGee snatched his spare weapon from his ankle holster and scrambled to take cover behind his vehicle.

"Hold your fire!" Gibbs directed his agents, knowing that a wild shot could trigger a mammoth explosion.

"Don't be a fool, Lopez, you've got nowhere to go," Gibbs yelled.

Ignoring the pain in his arm, Lopez prised open a crate and removed two grenades.

As he walked to the door of the garage, he pulled the pin from one, holding the safety lever firmly in place.

"Come out where I can see you," he yelled, "or this grenade will join your man under that car."

Gibbs blood ran cold as he realised that McGee was an easy target. He nodded to Ziva and they both walked cautiously into the open, their weapons still trained on Lopez' head.

"Gibbs, I have a shot," Ziva said, her voice sounding calm and composed through the earwig.

"He's too close to the ordnance. He drops that grenade and the whole lot could go up," Gibbs replied. "Hold your fire, let's see where this goes."

Lopez took a few slow steps into the compound, walking in the direction of his car and still brandishing a grenade in either hand.

"Drop your weapons!" he yelled. "Do it or your man dies!"

The reality of that statement caused the agents to lay down their weapons and step away, knowing that there was nothing more dangerous and unpredictable than a man with nothing to lose.

Lopez' eyes darted around the compound, looking for signs of other agents. Seeing none, he began to move slowly toward his car. He had just three yards to cover when the grenade unexpectedly exploded, triggering the second one and engulfing his body in a fatal eruption of sound, heat and energy.

The three agents threw themselves to the ground, instinctively protecting themselves from shrapnel and the possibility that the grenade's detonation might set off a chain reaction of the other volatile explosives in the garage.

An agonisingly long moment elapsed and when it appeared the cache of weapons and explosives in the garage were secure, the agents climbed cautiously to their feet.

Gibbs did a quick visual of his agents, ensuring with an appraising glance that they were unharmed. They approached the bloodied and hideously disfigured body of Matteo Lopez.

"He did not release the safety lever," Ziva said.

"Then, what was it?" McGee asked. "Malfunction?"

"Justice," Gibbs replied flatly.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

A team of Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal technicians met Gibbs at the boarding house to secure, inventory and transport the weapons and explosives. A short time later, another investigative team arrived to assist with processing the large crime scene. Ducky and his FBI counterpart collected the remains of Matteo Lopez and had returned to the Navy Yard to perform, what was certain to be, a time-consuming and complex autopsy.

Using the portable UV lights, the agents found traces of a large bloodstain on the floor in one of the bedrooms, just as Salinas had described. They collected samples for analysis but were confident the blood belonged to Carlos Torres.

Special Agent Jackson had been lifting prints and searching Lopez' car when he popped the trunk and located a plastic trash bag. Checking inside he located an expensive looking camel cashmere overcoat badly stained with blood. He immediately bagged it for forensic testing.

They had just started to pack up their gear when Gibbs answered his cell to a frantic Jimmy Palmer.

"What? Palmer, calm down!" Gibbs ordered gruffly. "Say again – slowly!"

The urgency in Gibbs' voice immediately had Ziva and McGee at his side. They watched as the lead agent's jaw clenched and his knuckles turned white as his grip on the cell tightened.

"I'm on my way!" Gibbs said, snapping the cell closed and disconnecting the call.

"Boss?"

"Caldwell's got a warrant for DiNozzo's arrest," he answered over his shoulder as he jogged toward his vehicle. "Bastard's trying to have him moved to a federal prison."

The younger agents ran to catch up and Gibbs pulled them up short.

"I need you both to finish up here. Get that evidence to Abby and tell her what's going on. We're outta time – we've got to clear DiNozzo _now_!"

Ziva and McGee reluctantly changed direction and returned to the crime scene. They collected and sealed a large evidence box containing various "bagged and tagged" items for Abby to process and then returned to the Navy Yard.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Gibbs negotiated the light traffic with one hand on the wheel as he pressed the speed-dial on his cell.

"What the hell is going on, Tobias?" Gibbs said harshly.

"I just found out about this myself, Gibbs, but I can tell you - this wasn't ordered by the FBI," Fornell responded.

"Then why the hell is Caldwell trying to take my agent into custody?"

"Because the son of a bitch went over Director Timmins' head again. I told you, he's got a lot of pull and the political backing of Senator Tom Barnaby."

The cell was in danger of imploding from the strength of the lead agent's grip as Fornell continued.

"Jethro…the order came from the Attorney General's office. Caldwell's moving DiNozzo tonight."

"The hell he is!"

"The paperwork has been signed off by the Deputy Attorney General…DiNozzo is to be transferred by helicopter to the infirmary of USP Lee to await a hearing."

"USP Lee is a maximum security prison!"

"I know…Jethro, I'm sorry. I'll do what I can but it won't be much."

Arriving at Bethesda fifteen minutes later, Gibbs ignored the sharp pain in his knee as he gave up on the slow moving elevators and took the stairs two at a time. He burst into the waiting area near Tony's room and saw Caldwell arguing with Commander Fenner.

"I don't care if you have Marine One waiting on the heliport, Agent DiNozzo is my patient and I'm telling you that he's not well enough for a flight!" Fenner said angrily.

"They brought him here by helicopter," Caldwell replied curtly.

"And since then he has had extensive surgery of his shoulder and a surgical procedure on his brain. He is not stable enough to be airlifted."

"I have the authority to remove DiNozzo from this facility tonight," Caldwell blustered.

"You'll have to get past me first," Gibbs' voice sounded from behind.

Caldwell turned to see the fierce intent in the former Marine's eyes and body language and, instinctively, took a step back.

"Before you say anything, Gibbs, I have a warrant for the arrest of Anthony DiNozzo."

"This is a witch-hunt, Caldwell, and you know it. Tony didn't shoot those agents," Gibbs stated emphatically.

"Can you prove that, Agent Gibbs?"

"It's not up to me to prove he's innocent, it's up to you to prove he's guilty and you haven't done that."

"The DA feels we have enough to hold DiNozzo for suspicion of the murders of FBI Agent Higgins, Carlos Torres and the attempted murder of FBI Agent Cole," Caldwell replied smugly. "He murdered two men in cold blood, Gibbs, possibly three if Cole doesn't make it!"

"Your own damn forensic scientist confirmed that there were two other sets of glove prints on DiNozzo's weapon. And he didn't even fire his gun at the COL warehouse a few days later. Does that sound like some crazed gunman who's running around shooting people?"

"Maybe he couldn't get a look at their backs!" Caldwell sniped.

Gibbs fought with everything he had to extinguish the flame of fury burning within him before it became a raging inferno.

"We believe we can prove that Matteo Lopez killed Torres. Evidence is being processed right now."

"Evidence from where?" Caldwell challenged.

"We found Lopez and the stockpile of weapons."

"Why weren't we informed? This is still supposed to be a joint operation, Gibbs!"

"This stopped being a joint operation when you ordered your sniper to shoot my agent!" Gibbs hissed.

"Gentlemen, please!" Commander Fenner said. "The fact of the matter is that my patient has sustained a serious head trauma, including a subdural haematoma. He is not yet stable enough to go anywhere. I am willing to debate that point with any doctor you choose but I will not argue the point with you, Agent Caldwell."

Anticipating resistance Caldwell handed the doctor the business card of an FBI approved neurologist and a folded document.

"That is a subpoena for you to forward copies of DiNozzo's medical file to Doctor Miller. If he agrees with your assessment, we will delay transferring him until tomorrow and will move him by prisoner transport vehicle. If you don't forward copies of the file within the hour, there will be serious consequences."

They watched the FBI agent speak briefly with his men who were left to continue their standoff with the Marines and then he stalked arrogantly into the corridor and out of sight.

Gibbs cocked his thumb toward Tony's closed door.

"How is he?"

"He didn't need this mess, that's for sure," the doctor said. "By the time the nurse alerted me and I got to the room, Caldwell was already reading him his rights and trying to handcuff him to the bed."

"Damn," Gibbs cursed softly.

"He said he was fine but his pulse was racing, his blood pressure spiked and I know he's still in a lot of pain."

"You give him something?"

"I tried to. He refused any kind of pain medication," the doctor said with a look of frustration that Gibbs had worn many times since meeting the ex-detective. "He said he needs to stay awake so he can remember what happened."

"Ducky said those memories may never return," Gibbs stated.

"That's right, but he's determined to push himself. All he's doing is causing unnecessary pain."

Gibbs nodded then looked around the room again.

"Where's Palmer?"

"I asked him to sit with Tony for awhile, thought he could use a friendly face," Fenner said. "I need to prepare Tony's file. I'm fairly certain I can delay his transfer until tomorrow. Have the duty nurse page me if you need me."

Gibbs opened the door to Tony's room, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The younger man was propped up in the bed, his eyes were closed and his long dark lashes appeared as smudges against his too pale skin. The rigidity in his body and the short breaths being forced through his partly opened mouth, told Gibbs his agent was awake and in pain.

Palmer rose from the chair beside the bed and they quietly stepped outside the room.

"I'm sorry Agent Gibbs," the young ME assistant said. "I tried to stop Caldwell from getting to Tony but he threatened to have me arrested for impeding a federal agent in the performance of his duty…he couldn't really do that, could he? I mean… it's just that…I'm not the kind of guy who would do very well in prison. I could end up being someone's pet…"

Gibbs silenced the young man with a withering look.

"I'm sorry…that's _so_ not important right now," Palmer mumbled.

"He said anything?" Gibbs asked, watching Tony intently through the half closed door.

"He's hardly uttered a word," Palmer replied, concern etched across his young face. "Caldwell's convinced him that he killed those agents. I thought I could get him to talk to me but he's completely shut me out."

"Not your fault, Palmer."

Gibbs walked back into the room and stood by his agent's bedside. Signs of pain were apparent on Tony's face, the small furrows along his forehead and the tightness around his lips. His left shoulder was still heavily bandaged, the arm strapped firmly across his chest. The fingers of his right hand were still wrapped protectively around the button of the morphine pump, preventing anyone from pressing it and providing the much needed pain relief.

"You heard?" Tony whispered, his eyes were still closed but he sensed his boss' presence. "USP Lee."

"Not gonna happen," Gibbs replied.

Tony opened eyes that were glassy with pain. "Caldwell has an arrest warrant with my name on it that disagrees with you, Boss…and we've got nothing to prove he's wrong."

Gibbs watched helplessly as his agent's long-constructed emotional shields threatened to crumble at any minute.

"Tony…listen to me…you did _not_ shoot those agents."

"I wanna believe that," the younger man whispered.

"Then do it…believe it."

He watched as Tony's expression closed down and he turned his face away, a clear indication that he was not prepared to discuss the matter any further and one that brought a silent curse of frustration to Gibbs' lips.

DiNozzo was a cop, through and through. Astute and intuitive, he relied on his gut almost as often as the lead agent himself. But the loss of those vital memories and the realisation that he left McGee at that warehouse to be killed, had shaken his self-belief to its very core.

Callused fingers turned the younger man's face back to meet the former Marine's determined gaze.

"Believe it!"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

McGee and Abby anxiously paced back and forth across the floor in the forensics lab.

Their separate routes intersected between Abby's computer workbench and her refrigeration unit and, each time, they exchanged an exasperated sigh or an antsy "what's taking so long?"

Gibbs had returned from the hospital as incensed as they could ever remember seeing him. He silenced their questions with a brusque wave of his hand and told them he'd meet him in the forensics lab as soon as he'd spoken with the director.

Unable to contain themselves, they called Palmer to see what had happened to get the lead agent so fired up. That was forty minutes ago and they were now in danger of wearing a groove in the floor. Their paths intersected again and McGee pulled Abby into a fierce hug.

"This is so not right!" Abby exclaimed.

"I know they called it a red light in the sexual harassment seminar but I thought you were okay with hugs, Abs?" McGee answered, receiving a punch in the shoulder for his trouble.

"Not the hug, silly, what they're trying to do to Tony! He can't go to jail, McGee, he's _innocent_ and he's really sick and he should be in the hospital!"

"USP Lee has a prison infirmary, Abs," McGee replied absently as Abby curled her fingers into a fist and landed another punch to McGee's shoulder.

"Ow! Right…_so_ not the point," he said apologetically.

"USP Lee is a maximum security federal penitentiary, McGee! Tony probably put some of those guys in there. He'll be like fresh fish!"

"That's fresh _meat_, Abs and I'm sure they'll keep him in solitary confinement."

This time he caught the fist in mid-air as it targeted his bruised shoulder once again.

"Okay, okay, I missed the point again! Look, Abs, don't worry, I'm sure Gibbs and the director are straightening this whole thing out right now."

Ziva rushed breathlessly into the lab. Äny news?" she said.

"Gibbs is still with the director," Abby replied sullenly.

"I do not understand how this can happen!" Ziva exclaimed. "I have just spent many nights studying the Constitution and Bill of Rights…what happened to the presumption of Tony's innocence until proven guilty?"

"Actually, Ziva, innocent until proven guilty, is not in the Constitution, as such," McGee corrected. "The concept is embodied in several provisions of the Constitution, however, such as... the right to remain silent and the right to a jury and…Ow!"

McGee rubbed the pain from his embattled shoulder after Ziva landed a telling blow.

"Sorry…I guess I'm just worried about Tony," he explained, receiving the evil eye from Abby and Ziva. "I'm gonna go practise _my_ right to remain silent on the other side of the room… where it's safe."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Ten minutes later, Gibbs strode into the lab wearing a frustrated expression and looking like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Gibbs?" Abby asked tremulously. "Please tell us that Tony isn't going to jail?"

Gibbs scrubbed his hands over tired eyes and exhaled loudly.

"Tony's doctor has convinced the FBI medical expert that, due to his head injury, Tony won't be fit to fly for two to three weeks."

"So, they will not be taking him to USP Lee tonight," Ziva said, her voice coloured by relief.

"The director has been able to call in a few favours and the Attorney General has agreed to remand Tony to the infirmary wing of the Central Detention Facility here in DC as of zero eight hundred tomorrow."

No sooner had he finished speaking than he found himself with an armful of distressed Goth.

"No! They can't do that Gibbs! It's not right, Tony is innocent!" she cried.

"I know, Abs…I know."

"Tony will be devastated," Ziva said. "Someone should be with him, yes?"

"Ducky and Palmer are with him."

"There is no _actual _proof that Tony shot anyone!" Ziva stated. "How can the Attorney General make such a decision?"

"Decision was based on the weight of circumstantial evidence – Tony's gun, his prints, his proficiency with a handgun, the cash found on his person and the fact that he was leading the raid at COL with plans and blueprints he provided."

"You gotta admit, it's pretty incriminating," McGee said, this time receiving a head slap from the former Marine. "Incriminating for anybody _other_ than Tony, that is...sorry, Boss."

Heavy silence fell over the lab as they took a moment to gather their resolve.

"What can we do?" McGee asked.

"We do our jobs, we go over every report every crime scene photo, every piece of evidence again and again until we find something to clear Tony and we start right now…whatcha got, Abs?"

Taking a deep breath, Abby composed herself and reported her findings.

"I have fabric prints," she said.

"You matched the gloves?"

"Unfortunately, Lopez was wearing his when the grenades he was holding went kaflooey so, as you can imagine, there wasn't enough left of those bad boys to make a comparison," Abby replied.

"Damn," Gibbs muttered.

"Wait Gibbs, I'm not done yet," Abby said. " Prior to the explosion that killed him, Lopez made a grab for McGee's gun and also paid McGee twenty thousand dollars cash. The fabric prints he left on McGee's gun and the cash straps, match perfectly with prints found on Tony's gun and the money given to Tony."

Abby moved to a large evidence bag containing a camel coloured overcoat.

"Agent Jackson found this bloodstained overcoat in the trunk of Matteo Lopez' car," Abby said. "Although it was highly probable that the coat belonged to Lopez, Norman and I matched Lopez' DNA to two sources extracted from the coat."

"Where is Norman?" McGee asked.

"He got called back to the Hoover Building."

"Abby, you said you had two sources for DNA comparison?" Ziva asked.

"Yep. Hair follicles and stratum corneum, which is the top layer of the epidermis."

"You mean skin," McGee said.

"That's what I said, Timmy, you really need to listen more," Abby scolded. "So, we have a positive DNA match proving that Lopez owned this overcoat."

"What next?" Gibbs prompted.

"Okay, moving on…the blood on the overcoat matches Carlos Torres type and DNA and the blood pattern and the gunpowder residue on the right sleeve in particular, is consistent with someone standing in close proximity to the victim and firing a gun directly into the back of Torres' skull. We can match Lopez' prints to the murder weapon and the blood pattern and gunpowder residue to the overcoat he was wearing at the time - Matteo Lopez definitely killed Carlos Torres."

"Salinas was telling the truth," McGee said.

"Clears Tony for the murder of Torres but we still have to find something that clears him of shooting of Higgins and Cole," Gibbs said.

"What if there is nothing to find?" Ziva asked.

"Then, at zero eight hundred tomorrow," Gibbs stated. "DiNozzo goes to jail."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**A/N:- Thanks for your great support and very kind reviews and alerts, L**


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 26**

"Boss? Is there a problem?" McGee asked as Gibbs closed his cell.

"Director wants us all upstairs," he replied, heading for the elevator.

"Even me?" Abby asked.

"Even you."

They stepped out of the elevator and Gibbs led them into the bullpen where Vance stood watching the large plasma.

"You wanted to see us, Director?"

"The evening news bulletin says Senator Tom Barnaby is expected to announce his intention to run for re-election at zero seven thirty tomorrow," Vance said. "According to an unnamed source from the Senator's office, he'll also be announcing his endorsement of Larry Caldwell for Congressman and a major breakthrough in the investigation into a weapons substitution racket that resulted in the deaths of three highly decorated Marines and three federal agents."

"How can he make such an announcement in an ongoing investigation?" Ziva asked.

"Far as he and Caldwell are concerned, DiNozzo's guilty – case closed," Gibbs growled.

"Looks like he plans to announce it to the world tomorrow," Vance said. "I've got our legal people looking at obtaining an injunction to prohibit Barnaby from naming DiNozzo or this agency. Trouble is, the man's got so much pull on the hill I don't know that we'll have too much luck. Speaking of luck, you get anything from the last lot of evidence?"

"Enough to prove that Lopez killed Torres but nothing to clear DiNozzo of shooting the FBI agents," Gibbs replied. "We'll work through the night, start from scratch, go over every report, statement, crime scene photo…"

"That's a hell of a lot of work to get done before zero eight hundred tomorrow."

"You got any other ideas, Director, I'm listening!" Gibbs said with a large dose of frustration in his tone.

The soft ding of the elevator sounded in the background and Vance looked over Gibbs' shoulder, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Matter of fact, I do," he said, pointing with his chin toward the elevator and the stairwell as Balboa, Mailley and Jackson led their teams into the operations room.

"What's going on, Leon?" Gibbs asked.

"If we're gonna clear DiNozzo before tomorrow, I figured you could use some fresh eyes and a little help," Vance said. "I asked for a few volunteers from the off duty teams and got the whole damn lot. Seems there's a whole lot of people watching DiNozzo's back."

"Tony's watched theirs often enough," Gibbs replied.

"Get out of here. Tell DiNozzo no-one's going home till we find something, then you and your team get some rest - we've got this covered."

Needing no time to consider the request, Gibbs, McGee and Ziva hurried to their desks, retrieving their weapons and their backpacks and exchanging their thanks with several of their colleagues. As the off duty teams separated to allow them access to the elevators, Gibbs caught sight of Abby. Standing perfectly still with her arms wrapped around her midsection in a self-hug, her eyes pooled with tears as she watched them prepare to leave.

"Abs?"

"Give Tony a hug for me, Gibbs," she said, her voice wobbling as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Tell him we won't stop working until we bring him home."

"Miss Scuito? You're not going to the hospital?" Vance asked.

"No, Sir. There's no-one else here qualified to review all my reports," she said, trying for a smile but failing in the attempt. "It's okay, Gibbs… really…just tell Tony I love him."

The elevator sounded again, this time depositing Fornell, FBI Forensic Specialist, Robert Hennessy and an unknown woman into the operations room.

"Looks like the cavalry has arrived, Miss Scuito," Vance said. "You'll be going with Gibbs after all."

"Norman!" Abby squealed, wrapping her FBI counterpart in a bone-crushing hug.

Hennessy looked at Fornell and asked. "She does know that's not my name, doesn't she?"

Fornell shrugged. "With Abby, sometimes it's hard to tell."

Hennessy introduced the woman to Abby with a hint of pride in his voice. "This is my fiancé, Professor Anna Reilly. Anna teaches a Masters course in Forensic Science at UPenn and acts as a consultant for the FBI. Director Timmins explained the situation and we're more than happy to help review your reports."

Professor Reilly extended her hand in greeting and received a bone-crushing hug of her own.

"I'll even introduce Anna to Mister Mass Spec and the kiddies," Hennessy said.

"That's _Major_ Mass Spec and the _babies_," Abby corrected then turned to look at Vance, anxiously catching her lower lip between her teeth. "Director?"

"It's fine," Vance said. "They'll be reviewing forensic and ballistic reports, so there'll be no breach of the chain of evidence and they'll sign the confidentiality paperwork."

"I can go?"

"You can go?"

"Oh my God, I can't believe it! This is, like, totally awesome – thanks you guys! Gibbs, wait for me, okay? I'm coming with you! I have to get my coat and my bag and Bert…I have to get Bert," she said, running for the elevator in her precariously high stiletto boots. As the elevator doors began to close she placed her hand between them to halt their progress and called. "I told you Gibbs, I told you that under all that FBI-ness, Fornell kinda likes me."

"She's a little weird but she's lovable - what's not to like," Fornell told Gibbs as the elevator doors closed on a beaming Abby.

"Never took you for a lab-monkey, Tobias," Gibbs said.

"Wouldn't know a gas chronometer from an infrared micro spectroscopy unit," Fornell deadpanned.

"Appreciate you helping out," Vance told Fornell.

"Thank Timmins, this was his idea. Caldwell's gone over his head so many times he's left footprints on his scalp," Fornell quipped. "If we find something to prove DiNozzo's innocent and discredit Caldwell in the meantime, it'll be time well spent. Just don't tell DiNozzo, it'll ruin our relationship."

"Won't hear it from me," Gibbs replied.

"My lips are sealed," Vance added.

"There's something else," Fornell said. "Caldwell has submitted his resignation from the FBI effective as of 8:00am tomorrow."

"Just after Senator Barnaby endorses his candidacy," Vance stated.

"He plans to put DiNozzo on the prisoner transport vehicle live on television in the hope it wins him enough votes to secure the election."

"The hell he will," Gibbs growled.

"Then we'd better get to work," Vance said turning to Gibbs. "Get outta here, we'll call if we get anything."

Lead agent and director exchanged a perfunctory nod but as their eyes met, grateful thanks were offered and accepted.

**f00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

The closer Gibbs got to Bethesda, the more his gut twisted with self-recrimination. There was no getting around it, he would have to face Tony and tell him that, while he would not be transferred to USP Lee, unless his colleagues at NCIS had a major breakthrough tonight, the ex-detective would be sent to the Central Detention Facility in DC at zero eight hundred. The former Marine had read and re-read every report countless times – although he fervently hoped for a breakthrough, realistically, he knew it would not be forthcoming.

Ducky and Palmer were seated in the waiting area outside Tony's hospital room as Gibbs led his team and Abby to join them. As they approached, the elderly ME climbed wearily to his feet, a slew of emotions warring for control of his kindly features.

"Jethro, thank heavens you're here!" he said.

"Tony okay?"

"He is far from okay," the older man stated, not bothering to hide his frustration. "He is quite possibly the most obstinate, pig-headed, bloody-minded young man I have ever met – with the notable exception of you, of course."

"You just finding that out, Duck?" Gibbs replied, placing a calming hand on the doctor's tense shoulder. "What's going on?"

"Anthony is _still_ refusing any pain relief. He is desperately trying to force himself to remember what happened when the FBI agents were shot."

"He's had no pain killers? It's been hours!"

"Nothing since before you saw him this morning."

"Dammit," Gibbs muttered softly.

"He is convinced that he will be sent to prison tomorrow. Of course, I assured him that you would never allow it."

The former Marine exhaled loudly, carding his fingers through his short silver hair.

"Oh my," Ducky said. "You don't mean that…."

"Zero eight hundred tomorrow," Gibbs said, hating the sound of resignation in his voice.

"Oh dear…perhaps you'd like me to be with you when you tell him?" Ducky asked.

"Give me a few minutes with him first," Gibbs replied, taking a deep breath and flexing his jaw to relax.

The team took their places with Palmer and Ducky as Gibbs opened the door to Tony's room. The lights were dimmed considerably to ease the light sensitivity the younger man was still suffering and, initially, Gibbs could barely make out the form of his agent, propped up in the bed.

Tony's breathing was ragged and noisy as he tried to gasp through the pain that caused fine tremors to run through his body. His skin and hair were damp with sweat and his eyes were closed and hollowed from pain and fatigue. His long fingers were still protectively clasping the morphine pump to prevent its use.

Hearing the click of the closing door, Tony's eyes opened and he spoke in a raspy voice.

"Boss?"

Despite his best efforts to maintain a dispassionate guise, his agent knew him too well - he saw through his façade in an instant and knew the news was bad.

Tony's eyes filled with anguish and the raw grief on his face was difficult for Gibbs to watch. The younger man forced himself to breathe and took a few slow wavering breaths before resolutely meeting the lead agent's gaze.

"Just say it, Boss…I shot those agents," he stated, his voice thick with barely contained emotion.

"What? Jesus, is that what you think? Listen to me…you did _not_ shoot those agents!" Gibbs said emphatically.

"You can't prove it though, can you?"

"Don't have to…I know it."

"So…USP Lee tomorrow?" The rhythm of Tony's speech was completely lifeless.

"Central Detention Facility, Infirmary Wing."

His anxious green eyes filled with such desperate, hopelessness that the former Marine needed a minute to keep his own resolve in check.

"Tony, _this…does not…end here_!" Gibbs said, explaining that their colleagues were working around the clock to uncover proof of his innocence.

"They won't find it," he said in a voice that was barely audible. "Admit it, Boss, if you thought there was something to find, you'd be there, not here."

"I'm exactly where I should be."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00 **

They sat in total silence, the need of support was not voiced nor was it verbally answered, and yet the feeling was exchanged and brought a modicum of comfort to them both. Gibbs watched helplessly as Tony was trapped in his own private purgatory, afraid the memories would never return; yet terrified that they would.

The door opened a crack and Ducky poked his head around the corner.

"May I join you, Anthony?" he asked gently.

Noting the lack of response from the younger man, Gibbs replied. "Come on in, Duck."

The ME entered the darkened room and positioned himself by Tony's bedside. He poured a glass of water from the nearby pitcher and brought a straw to Tony's parched lips allowing the younger man to slake his thirst.

He ran a trained eye over the younger man's sweaty face and the tremors running through his body and clicked his tongue loudly against his teeth in disapproval.

"Anthony, you cannot go on like this," Ducky said in a firm but gentle tone. "Pain is the body's way of communicating that it needs attention. You have relief at your fingertips…please, use the morphine pump."

"I have to remember," Tony replied with a toneless quality in a voice that rarely, if ever, lacked emotion. "One way or the other, I have to know if I shot those agents."

"Subjecting yourself to such pain is not going to bring those memories back!" Ducky told him. "Perhaps if you rest!"

"I'm going to jail for shooting two agents, Ducky," he hissed through tightly clenched teeth. "Tell me how I'm supposed to rest knowing that?"

The ME exchanged an exasperated look with the lead agent before trying a change of tack.

"There is a small group of very concerned people outside who would dearly love to see you."

"No!"

"Anthony?"

"I don't want to see them, Ducky, _please!"_

"They are your friends, my boy, they believe in your innocence."

"That's why I can't see them," Tony replied. "What if I'm guilty?"

"They _know_ you, Anthony…they will _never_ believe that you shot those agents and nor will I."

Tony huffed a contemptuous laugh.

"They would never believe I would leave McGee alone to be killed," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper,"…but I did."

"Anthony, please, you must…."

"No, Ducky!" Tony said loudly, increasing the agonising pain in his head and hissing through clenched teeth as the movement caused an excruciating spasm in his shoulder.

"Enough!" Gibbs said, unable to watch Tony struggle against the pain any longer. He walked to the side of the bed and held his hand palm up. "Give me the pump."

He saw the mutinous look in his agent's red-rimmed eyes and for a moment, he thought Tony was going to defy him. Too exhausted and in too much pain to continue the fight, he took a deep breath and let it out in a long, controlled exhale as he placed the morphine pump in Gibbs' hand. The older man immediately pressed the button, releasing a measured dose of long-overdue pain relief.

"Get some rest," he said, quietly cursing as the last glimmer of hope faded from Tony's eyes and he turned his cheek into the pillow.

"I can't face them, Boss," he whispered, already feeling the morphine overpower his weakened body. "Especially McGee."

Gibbs nodded his understanding as Tony closed his eyes and allowed the medication to lure him into a deep sleep.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

After receiving Vance's call to take a quick break and join them in the operations room, Fornell led Professor Reilly and her fiancé, FBI Forensic Specialist, Robert Hennessy into the bullpen. They gravitated to an empty desk where multiple trays of sandwiches and hot beverages had just been placed.

"How's it coming?" Vance asked, swiping half a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

"Nothing yet," Fornell said. "Ms Scuito may be a little…eccentric…but according to Hennessy and Professor Reilly, she's an exceptional forensic specialist - every 'T' is crossed and every 'I' dotted. What about you?"

"There's a long way to go yet but so far we've got a whole lot of circumstantial evidence showing means, cause and know how and nothing that tells us DiNozzo didn't do it."

"You really think we're gonna find anything?" Fornell asked.

Vance shook his head. " If there was something in these reports that would clear DiNozzo, Gibbs would have been all over it."

"Then why all this? Why bring in the extra teams?" Fornell said reaching for a sandwich.

"DiNozzo's one of ours. Besides, I gave him this assignment knowing he wasn't fully fit – he could have turned it down, left it for someone else, but he didn't. I owe it to him to leave no stone unturned. Have to admit, you being here surprises me - you and DiNozzo have quite a chequered past."

"Don't get me wrong, I think DiNozzo is a world class pain in the ass! But he wouldn't have lasted a week with Gibbs if he weren't a good agent and a better man. He sure as hell doesn't deserve this."

"Well, I better get back to it," Vance said. "Let me know if you need anything."

Fornell took a long draught from his coffee as he looked around at the frenetic activity in the operations room and shook his head.

DiNozzo may be a world class pain in the ass but along the way he'd earned the respect of every one of these agents and, in particular, one Leroy Jethro Gibbs… and that was good enough for him.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

In the waiting area outside Tony's room, Palmer sat with Abby, Ziva and McGee talking quietly and anxiously hoping to offer their support and encouragement to their injured senior field agent. Although the presence of his friends and the two Marines was comforting, Jimmy's gaze constantly darted across the room to the two FBI agents. He paled noticeably as they eyed him predatorily, cracking their knuckles and menacingly dragging their index fingers across their throats when the others weren't watching. He welcomed the distraction when his mentor exited Tony's room.

"Ducky?" Abby said tremulously as the ME returned to the waiting area. "Is Tony okay, can we see him now?"

"He's sleeping, my dear," Ducky replied, noting Abby's obvious disappointment. "He was so exhausted, I expect that one dose from the morphine pump should give him several hours relief."

"We won't wake him, Ducky. We just need to see him in case…" she took a deep breath and tried to force her words around the large lump in her throat. "Before he…"

Ziva moved in closer to her friend and put voice to the words that Abby could not. "Before they take Tony to the detention facility."

Ducky felt torn between Tony's explicit wish not to see his friends and the four pair of eyes all silently pleading to be allowed to see him. His resolve wavered and finally crumbled completely, unable to deny them.

"Just for a moment," he instructed. "And _please_ do not wake him up…we had the dickens of a time getting him to agree to sleep!"

Gibbs rose from the chair that had been placed next to the bed and moved back against the wall to allow Abby and Ziva access.

Capturing her quivering lower lip between her teeth, Abby felt her control falter and tears spring to her eyes as she approached her sleeping friend. She gently traced his jaw line with her slightly trembling fingers and leaned forward to place a delicate kiss on his brow. She held her breath as Tony stirred slightly before settling back into sleep.

Standing on the other side of the bed, Ziva placed her hand on Tony's forearm.

"Anachno nachzir otcha habaita, Tony, al teAbed tikva," she whispered in Hebrew and then repeated in English. "We will bring you home, Tony, do not lose hope."

Palmer and McGee stood by the door, sending their own silent messages of support to their injured friend.

When Tony stirred restlessly again, Ducky gently herded his young colleagues from the room and back into the waiting area. He watched as McGee wrapped a comforting arm around Abby's shoulders.

"There's nothing more you can do for Anthony tonight," he said kindly. "Go home, all of you, get some rest."

"Come on, Abs, I'll drive you home," McGee said, guiding the subdued Goth toward the exit.

"We shall return in the morning," Ziva said. "Good night, Ducky."

"Wait!" Jimmy called, somewhat louder than he had intended.

"Mr Palmer, please keep your voice down, this is a hospital after all," Ducky chided.

"Ah…of course, sorry Doctor…I was…I was just going to offer you a lift home," Jimmy said, watching the FBI agents from the corner of his eye.

"That's very nice of you, Mr Palmer, but it's really unnecessary," Ducky replied, making his way toward the exit. "My Morgan awaits me in the staff parking lot. Good night!"

"Good night, Doctor," Jimmy muttered, gulping loudly as the FBI agents laughed loudly at a joke he suspected was at his expense.

"Good night, Jimmy." He started as Ziva's voice sounded from behind him as she returned from the restroom.

"Ziva! I thought you'd gone!"

"I was just washing my hands," she replied. "I am leaving now."

"No!" Jimmy replied, stopping the Israeli in her tracks. "Er…what I mean is…I would be happy to drive you home."

"Thank you, Jimmy, but I have my own car."

"Well…er…then I insist on walking you to your car," Jimmy said, still casting furtive looks at the FBI agents. "We can't have you walking alone at night. Anything could happen to me, _you._..I mean anything could happen to _you!"_

"I am quite certain I can take care of myself," Ziva smiled.

"Of course you can but I would never forgive myself if something terrible happened to me, _you_…if something happened to _you_! I don't know why I keep doing that!" Jimmy laughed nervously.

Ziva watched the young ME for a moment, noting that he seemed more jumpy than usual.

"That is very chivalrous of you, Jimmy, I accept," Ziva said extending her elbow toward him.

Hastily linking his arm with hers, Jimmy sighed in relief as they walked toward the exit. He was unable to resist a smug smile over his shoulder at the FBI agents, almost willing them to try something while he had his own personal assassin on his arm.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

In a manoeuvre long-since perfected, Gibbs dozed lightly in a chair leaning precariously on two legs against the wall. Years of stealing a precious hour of sleep on long stakeouts and arduous cases, plus too many hours spent sitting beside a hospital bed, had conditioned Gibbs to the sounds of his agent's breathing and his various levels of sleep.

Several times during the night and early morning he'd helplessly watched the restless movement of long legs beneath the light blankets and eyes that moved rapidly behind heavy lids. He'd listened as Tony's breathing became erratic and harsh and he knew that, even in sleep, the younger man was tortured by thoughts of what may have happened and the fear of what lay ahead. Moments later, as his breathing slowed into a slow and steady rhythm, Gibbs knew that fleeting fear and panic had been out-wrestled by the infamous DiNozzo tenacity and resolve.

The muscles along his jaw line contracted as the former Marine continued to bite down on his anger and frustration. Gibbs was a man of action. For all his faults and idiosyncrasies he was fiercely protective of those close to him and would lay down his life for any of them. DiNozzo was his second, his senior field agent. A man who could infuriate him with an ill-considered wise-crack and then astound him with a flash of case-breaking brilliance – but there was no-one Gibbs would rather have watching his six. It tore at his very being that in Tony's darkest hour all he could do, was stay by his side and offer his steadfast support.

Tony forced himself to take slow and even breaths, knowing that the former Marine would be alert to any signs of his distress or panic. He forced his mind to replay the last thing he remembered before waking up in the hospital. Again and again he relived the horror of seeing Ray Sanchez engulfed in a deadly explosion but he could remember no more than that.

He hated the murkiness in his brain, like all the answers were there, hiding in a shadow beyond his sight. Each time he tried to reach a little further but every time he tried to catch some memory lingering just out of reach, it disappeared. His gut clenched painfully as he realised that, this time, there would be no eleventh hour reprieve for him. He knew that if the smallest of clues or leads existed, his team leader would be moving heaven and earth to prove his innocence.

For the first time since he and Gibbs met, the former Marine's presence by his side brought a comforting support and a terrifying reality – and that reality told him he was going to jail.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Vance slammed the handset of the phone back into its cradle and fought to maintain a professional detachment in front of his men.

"Bad news?" Fornell asked as he hustled into the bullpen.

"Our application for an injunction to stop Barnaby and Caldwell from naming DiNozzo and NCIS has been denied. They can say whatever they damn well please and there's not a thing we can do to stop them. You got something?"

Fornell shook his head. "Thought it might be time to visit the sick. How do you feel about a ride to the hospital, Director?"

"Lead on," the director replied, following Fornell to the elevator.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Two breakfast trays remained untouched on the rollaway table, the agents unable to force themselves to eat. Barely a word had been spoken, there didn't seem to be a need for words, only an understanding silence.

Doctor Fenner had been by to examine Tony and ensure he was physically able to make the thirty-five minute road trip to the Central Detention Facility. He had wanted to give Tony a mild sedative – just enough to relieve the anxiety and counteract any painful jostling he was likely to encounter in the prisoner transfer vehicle. Tony had refused. If he was going to jail, he was walking on his own two feet and with his faculties intact. Despite the circumstances, Gibbs couldn't help the swelling of pride in his chest.

The ex-detective managed a quick shower and then sat vacantly staring into space as a nurse changed the dressings on his shoulder and readied the figure eight shoulder brace. Getting into the brace required considerable movement of his arm, drawing several harsh grunts of pain and leaving him gasping for breath when it was finally in position.

Gibbs was mildly surprised when his agent reluctantly acquiesced and allowed him to assist with the small buttons on his shirt. Embarrassment coloured the younger man's face and he refused to make eye contact as Gibbs adjusted the sling then clipped him affectionately under the chin.

The lead agent checked his watch and found they were early. Desperate to break the oppressive silence, he picked up the remote and switched on the television, hoping to distract Tony with the sports report. They exchanged an amused look as Diane Fontaine's image appeared on the screen.

They had first met the TV journalist seven years ago when the body of a Navy Commander was washed up on a beach and he was wrongly accused of drug running. The irony was not lost on either of them.

"Diane's doing okay…on scene reporter to anchorwoman," Gibbs remarked

"You know, Boss," Tony said quietly. "You took her cell number from me and you never did give it back."

Gibbs smiled at his agent's attempt to lighten the mood. "Did you a favour, she wasn't your type."

"She's a smoking hot woman too busy with a career to want commitment. Back then that was my _only _type!"

The conversation was interrupted as the WXEK News anchorwoman spoke.

"We're going to cross live to the Bethesda Naval Hospital where Senator Tom Barnaby is about to announce his bid for re-election."

The image changed to the entrance of the hospital and they watched as Senator Barnaby strode confidently to stand on a small temporary dais.

"Good morning, I'd like make a brief statement after which I will take a few questions," the Senator said, obviously comfortable with the throng of print and television journalists jockeying for the optimum position with their cameras and microphones.

"It is with an overwhelming sense of honour and pride that I announce my intention to stand for re-election of my Senate position. The official launch of my campaign will take place this evening in my state capital. In addition, it is my great pleasure to announce my wholehearted endorsement of Mr Larry Caldwell in his bid to represent our state in the US Congress."

"As a senior agent in the FBI, Larry Caldwell's impeccable record is a shining example to all law enforcement agencies. He has fought against organised crime and injustice and is looking to continue that fight and any other issue that threatens the freedom, safety and welfare of our state's citizens. Larry Caldwell is a strong leader with vision, intellect and the commitment to improve the quality of life for all of his constituents. His ethics, convictions and strong voice are needed in our Nation's capital. I am certain that our partnership will serve us well in these challenging times. That is why I am proud to stand with Larry Caldwell and support his election to the U.S. Congress."

Not bothering to hide the depth of his anger and frustration, Gibbs snatched up the remote, ready to switch off the TV.

"No!" Tony said. "Leave it on. May as well hear what he's got to say."

As the small crowd politely clapped, Caldwell mounted the dais, shaking the Senator's hand.

"I am thrilled to have received the endorsement of Senator Tom Barnaby and I look forward to forging a partnership that will serve our constituents well. I will be travelling with the Senator to my home state this evening for the first of the official engagements."

"I'm sure you must be wondering why we have chosen to make these announcements at a Naval hospital. Recently, three highly decorated US Marines were tragically killed when faulty weapons, smuggled illegally into this country, malfunctioned and exploded."

In my capacity as Senior FBI Agent, I headed a task force charged with locating and apprehending the people running this weapons smuggling organization who were responsible for these deaths. The FBI conducted a relentless and exhaustive investigation that culminated in the seizure of millions of dollars of weapons and explosives and the neutralization of the gun-running operation. During the course of our investigation, three federal agents were shot, two lost their lives and one is still in a critical condition."

"The man responsible for shooting two FBI agents in the back, is himself, a federal agent and is currently receiving treatment in this facility. In my last official act as an FBI agent, I will be taking this man into custody and escorting him to the Central Detention Facility where he will await trial."

The murmurs from the small crowd grew into a cacophony of shouted questions as the journalists competed for Caldwell's attention.

"Agent Caldwell, can you tell us the name of the man you have arrested for these shootings?" a female journalist asked.

"Yes, I can. The man we believe responsible for these shootings is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

**A/N:- To receive your very kind PM's and reviews and to know that people are enjoying my stories is extremely gratifying and something that I never take for granted. Recently I was very pleased to learn that two of my stories were nominated in the Case File section of the LJ NCIS Awards 2010. **

**I was thrilled and completely overwhelmed to learn that, in a dead heat, BOTH of my stories won the Best Case File award. Many, many thanks to all who nominated and voted for Means to an End and Withdrawal. I am absolutely delighted in the result and the wonderful compliment.**

**I hope that you enjoyed this chapter and that you'll join me for the final chapter of Mistaken Identity, L**


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: NCIS and its characters do not belong to me and this story is not intended as an infringement of copyright. It has been written solely for entertainment and no profit has been made from its creation.**

A/N:- This is the final chapter of Mistaken Identity. It's longer than usual to allow me to tie up a few loose ends. I hope you enjoy it, L

**MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

**Chapter 27**

"_Son of a bitch!"_ Gibbs hissed, switching off the TV and wrestling with the urge to throw the remote at the opposite wall.

"This isn't happening," Tony whispered, as his breathing grew more rapid and his heart pounded painfully against his sternum.

He was drowning in a deluge of desperation that he couldn't put into words. Blood pumped so rapidly through his throbbing head that he could scarcely hear anything else and he pressed the heel of his hand to his temple to lessen the pain. He was gasping for breath but no matter how much air he drew in, it wasn't enough.

A familiar face appeared before him, calming him, bolstering him and encouraging him to take deep breaths until he felt his heart rate slow and the red mist that had engulfed him, lifted.

"You back with me?" Gibbs asked; his blue eyes filled with concern.

Still not able to find his voice, the younger man nodded his head slowly.

"Tony, I want you to listen to me…this is not over," he said. "You got that? This is not over."

"I gotcha, Boss," Tony whispered with little confidence.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The door burst open and Abby led the charge into the room.

"Tony!" she exclaimed, carefully wrapping her arms around his waist and placing her head on his good shoulder.

"I'm terribly sorry, Anthony," Ducky said. "We saw the news broadcast and they were determined to get in to see you. I'm afraid I was outnumbered and outflanked."

"It's okay, Ducky," Tony replied.

"Quick, Tony, we don't have much time!" Abby said.

"Time?"

"We've got it all planned."

"What's planned?"

"Say the word and we'll bust you out of here, Mugsy" McGee said, frowning as Tony barely acknowledged him.

"We can split up and head for the border – and you can recite your Tommy Lee Jones speech as much as you like, yes?" Ziva said.

"We'll make like mint sauce and go on the lamb," Palmer said.

"For goodness sake, Mr Palmer, as I have just finished explaining to Ziva, the word is lam without the 'b'. It's a common enough mistake, I suppose, after all lam is not a word that is often used. Unless one is in China where Lam is a common Cantonese surname, and a variant of the Mandarin surname, Lin."

"Ducky?" Abby said.

"Oh, of course, my dear, a story for another time."

Despite himself, Tony dredged up a small smile and tightened his one armed hug around Abby.

"It's gonna be okay," he told them.

The forensic specialist didn't respond as she struggled with her own emotions. Abby looked at her friend and her green eyes pooled with unshed tears. When she blinked, a tear escaped and Tony reached out a long finger to stop its path down her cheek.

"S'gonna be okay," he whispered again, placing a kiss on her temple.

Gibbs watched proudly as his agent gathered his considerable strength of will to defeat his rising panic. Only moments ago, it had threatened to rip asunder the protective walls he had built around his real emotions. Now, with the walls reinforced and the mask firmly back in place, he was the one offering comfort to his friends.

McGee's cell rang and he looked at his senior field agent, frowning again as Tony turned away. "Caldwell's on his way up with the federal marshals," he said.

Tony took a deep breath, letting it out in a long, controlled exhale.

"Gotta go. My ride's here," he said, giving Abby one last hug.

Being careful not to jostle Tony's shoulder, Ziva moved in for a quick hug, repeating the Hebrew words she whispered the previous night.

"Anachno nachzir otcha habaita, Tony," she told him sincerely.

"Gesundheit, Ziva," he said with a grin.

Palmer shook Tony's hand. "Take care, Tony."

Tony nodded, trying to get through the awkward goodbyes as quickly as possible, when Ducky moved to his side and captured the younger man's right hand in both of his.

"The true measure of a man is how he reacts to adversity, not good fortune. I have never been more proud to know you, Anthony DiNozzo. Rest assured, my boy, we will work tirelessly to prove your innocence and bring you home to us."

"Thanks, Ducky," Tony said, in a raspy voice.

McGee extended his hand andTony grasped it in a firm handshake, only holding his gaze for a moment before averting his eyes and releasing his grip.

"Stay strong, Tony, we'll have you out of there in no time," McGee said.

"Thanks, McGee," Tony said.

The IT specialist never thought he'd see the day when he'd find himself wishing for a 'probie' or a 'McGoo' from his senior field agent.

"We'll give you a moment," Ducky said, once again herding the others out of the room.

"You ready?" Gibbs asked.

Tony breathed deeply. "I'm ready, Boss."

Gibbs looked at his agent and saw many things in his eyes, things he would never speak, despite their closeness. There would be no goodbyes, not until all possible alternatives had been exhausted...and probably not even then.

The unspoken promise was given and received in the space of seconds, in the time it took for blue eyes to meet green, in the nod that asked for trust and the nod that gave it unconditionally.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

The door opened abruptly and Caldwell and two federal marshals entered the room.

With a smug look of contempt cast in Gibbs' direction, Caldwell ordered the marshals to get Tony on his feet while he read him his rights.

Despite their attempt to support him, Tony was unable to hold back a stifled yell when the movement sent a shaft of white-hot pain searing through him to every nerve ending.

"Hey! Easy!" Gibbs objected, inserting himself between the marshals and his agent.

Tony forced his breath through clenched teeth; closing his eyes and breathing through the residual spasm.

"Agent Gibbs," Caldwell said. "Perhaps you should leave."

"DiNozzo is my agent. I'm travelling with him and staying until they have him settled into the infirmary wing at the CDF," Gibbs said. "You got a problem with that, take it up with Warden Evans."

"You spoke to the Warden?"

"Toured the Persian Gulf with his brother. Small world," Gibbs replied, his lips curling in a grin as Caldwell's eyes darkened with barely contained anger.

"You'll have to surrender your weapons or you don't get on the vehicle," Caldwell snapped. "That's SOP."

Gibbs removed his sidearm and then placed his foot on a nearby chair to take his spare from his ankle holster. As Caldwell reached for the weapons, Gibbs turned his back and called through the open door.

"McGee!"

McGee appeared momentarily and Gibbs handed him his weapons and signalled for him to return to the waiting area.

"He needs to be restrained," Caldwell said.

"Take a look at him, Caldwell. His shoulder's busted and he can hardly stand up! You think he's gonna make a run for it?"

Caldwell's face coloured with frustration as he waved the federal marshals away. "Let's go!"

"We'll need a wheelchair," Gibbs said.

"No, Boss! No chair," Tony replied. "If I'm gonna go, I'm gonna walk. No chair...please."

Gibbs noted the beads of perspiration already gathering on his agent's forehead and the fine tremors indicating the exertion on his weakened body. He knew that Tony would make the distance if he had to crawl but he was determined to ensure it didn't come to that. Positioning himself by Tony's right side, he allowed his agent to set the pace and guided him out the door and into the waiting area.

Flanked by federal marshals the younger man chanced a look to the corner of the room where his friends and colleagues stood offering their silent support. He stumbled slightly into Gibbs, nodding his thanks as the team leader placed a steadying hand around his bicep and another in the middle of his back. They made it to the elevator, Gibbs growing more concerned as Tony's breathing became laboured and his body trembled from exertion.

The soft ding of the elevator sounded and before the door opened fully, Tobias Fornell burst from the car almost knocking DiNozzo on his ass.

"Damn it, Tobias!" Gibbs cursed as he struggled to keep Tony on his feet.

The senior FBI agent was gasping loudly as he tried to catch his breath. Looking around wildly, he spotted a television in the corner of the waiting area and yelled to McGee.

"Get that TV on!" he looked at Gibbs, his lips curling in a grin. "You're not gonna want to miss this."

As Caldwell began to protest, Fornell cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"You, too, Caldwell, this concerns you."

The puzzled group moved back into the waiting area as the television screen came to life and the image of Diane Fontaine at the WXEK News desk appeared.

"In a move described by many political opponents as a blatant attempt to buy votes, former FBI senior agent and newly endorsed Congressional candidate, Larry Caldwell, today named Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo as the man responsible for shooting two FBI agents."

"We cross live now to George Washington University Hospital where FBI Director, Neil Timmins, and NCIS Director, Leon Vance, have breaking news regarding this matter. Good morning gentlemen, thank you for joining us."

"Good morning Diane," the directors replied simultaneously.

"Director Timmins, according to our information FBI Agent Nathan Cole was shot and critically wounded several days ago, is that correct?"

"Yes, Diane, while in the performance of his duties, Agent Cole received critical gunshot wounds and has been fighting for his life here at GWU hospital ever since."

"I'm told you have new information in regard to this matter."

"We do," Timmins replied. "Agent Cole regained consciousness in the early hours of this morning and his doctors are confident that he will make a full recovery."

"That is wonderful news, Director. Was Agent Cole able to tell you who shot him?"

"In a brief statement Agent Cole advised that he saw his partner, Agent Don Higgins gunned down by known criminal Carlos Torres," Timmins said. "Moments later, as he attempted to leave the building to wait for back-up, Agent Cole located Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo in an office - he appeared to be unconscious. Before he could get to him, he was shot from behind."

"So, Special Agent DiNozzo could not have shot Agent Higgins or Agent Cole," Diane said.

"That is correct," Vance said. "Special Agent DiNozzo has been exonerated of all charges effective immediately."

Almost overcome with relief, Tony leaned heavily against Gibbs, as his increasingly unsteady legs demanded he take his weight off of them.

"McGee, give me a hand! Palmer, get a chair," Gibbs directed, as Tony swayed precariously.

With the chair quickly in place and Tony seated, Gibbs gave the younger man's good shoulder an encouraging squeeze as they continued to watch the news bulletin.

"Director Vance, according to Larry Caldwell, there was sufficient evidence against Special Agent DiNozzo to warrant an arrest, isn't that right?"

"The evidence against DiNozzo was all circumstantial, nothing had been proved. Yet in an act not sanctioned by his agency director, DiNozzo was shot by an FBI sniper and almost killed. I will be demanding a full inter-agency inquiry into who authorised such an extreme action that could have resulted in the death of an innocent man."

"I would think this situation would be extremely embarrassing for Senator Barnaby and will have all but destroyed any political aspirations held by Larry Caldwell," Diane stated. "Director Timmins, would you be willing to consider rescinding Caldwell's resignation?"

"Mr Caldwell's resignation has already been accepted and processed, it would be highly unlikely that decision would be reversed."

Gibbs nodded to McGee to switch off the television as the weight of many sets of eyes bore down upon a sickly pale Larry Caldwell.

"I don't believe it!" Caldwell snapped at Fornell. "You set me up! You arranged for Cole to say those things to undermine me! You've been trying to make me look foolish ever since I took over your case!"

"If DiNozzo really killed Higgins and shot Cole, what possible reason would Cole have to cover for him?" Fornell replied.

"You just couldn't stand to see me succeed where you failed_. I did my job!" _the man blustered. " I followed the trail of evidence! Evidence that told me DiNozzo was guilty - the gun, his fingerprints, his expertise with a handgun."

"None of that proved he pulled the trigger," Gibbs hissed through clenched teeth. "If you hadn't been in such a hurry to star in your own damn political circus we could have proved that."

"I gave you every opportunity to prove DiNozzo was innocent – you couldn't," Caldwell sneered. "Besides, in case you have forgotten, the FBI had already questioned DiNozzo on two separate occasions for suspicion of murder. Add that to his father's rather dubious business dealings…"

"You son of a bitch! My father has nothing to do with this!" Tony raised his head with eyes so dark with fury and loathing that when he made eye contact, Caldwell flinched involuntarily. Gibbs silently applauded his senior field agent; despite his affable demeanour, he could cower just about anyone when he put his mind to it.

Ducky placed a firm but gentle hand on Tony's good shoulder, keeping him seated.

Gibbs stepped into Caldwell's personal space, fierce intent clearly obvious in his eyes.

He cocked his thumb in Tony's direction.

"You exploited him to gain political and public favour and you damn near killed him in the process. If he hadn't moved on that roof, we'd be burying him right now!" Gibbs said in a low and menacing voice. "You lost your objectivity."

Caldwell laughed disdainfully. "You're in no position to talk about objectivity, Gibbs, – despite all the evidence to the contrary, you refused to believe DiNozzo could be guilty."

Gibbs shrugged. "I was right…DiNozzo's been cleared…and you're out on your ass."

Mouth tight with barely contained anger, Caldwell stared into Gibbs' eyes. After a long moment's duel, he abruptly turned and left, his body stiff with fury.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Closing the door gently behind him, Commander Fenner walked back into the waiting area.

"How's he doing?" Gibbs asked.

"Under the circumstances, remarkably well," Fenner replied. "I've just given him a mild sedative but you can go in if you like, just don't stay too long, he needs his rest."

Not needing a second invitation, the team and Fornell entered Tony's hospital room to find their friend already fighting the effects of the sedative.

"So, DiNozzo," Fornell said. "You went up against our best sniper and lived to tell the tale. Seems it's as hard to kill you as it is to charge you with murder."

"I admire your persistence, Toby," Tony replied wearily. "Remember what they say, if at first you don't succeed…"

Gibbs and Fornell exchanged a bemused glance and the FBI agent pointed with his chin in Tony's direction.

"How do you put up with this guy?" he asked.

"Told you…he's an acquired taste," Gibbs replied.

With a shake of his head and a wave of his hand, Fornell left the room.

Before the sedative enveloped him completely, Tony offered a quiet 'thanks' to his teammates...a single word that expressed so much more.

Gibbs nodded at his team, acknowledging their efforts and silently expressing his own gratitude.

Keeping his eyes open was just too hard. Tony let heavy lids close and listened to the hushed voices of his friends and the sound of their laughter.

With a Herculean effort, he cracked open his eyes and found Gibbs leaning back against the wall, silently enjoying the light-hearted banter going on around him. With his gruff, blunt words, his don't-even-think-about-it glares and stinging head slaps, he had become his lighthouse. Dependable and steadfast in any weather, a shining beacon keeping him from smashing against the rocks, helping to steady his course and safely guiding him home.

As if sensing he was being watched, Gibbs met his gaze and walked to his bedside.

"Thought you'd be sleeping. Need anything?"

Tony shook his head; noticing for the first time how exhausted the former Marine looked.

"You look like crap, Boss," Tony said slurred.

"You're no oil painting yourself, DiNozzo."

"I had my brain scrambled and I got shot. 'M not 'sposed to look good," he said blinking owlishly to stay awake. "What's your excuse?"

The lead agent took a breath and replied. "You had your brain scrambled and you got shot."

With a knowing look the two men communicated feelings of relief and gratitude – expressed in a manner beyond the ineffectual ability of words.

"It's over," Gibbs said. "Sleep."

With his boss by his side and the sound of his friend's voices in the background, Tony closed his eyes allowed the medication to shepherd him into a healing sleep.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Knowing Tony wouldn't stir again for several hours, the team headed back to the Navy Yard to tidy up the last of the paperwork on the case. As they entered the bullpen they found Vance and Balboa standing in front of the plasma screen.

"Problem, Director?" Gibbs asked.

"Emilio Salinas escaped FBI custody at Bethesda," Vance replied. "Two agents were found hand-cuffed to the x-ray machine in the radiology department. I've alerted the Marines outside DiNozzo's room...he's fine."

"Salinas is recovering from a gunshot wound to the leg," McGee said. "He couldn't have got far."

"He had to have help," Gibbs added.

"We're checking the security tapes now," Vance said, gesturing to McGee to take over the operation of the projector. "A man dressed as a hospital employee entered Salinas' room to take him for x-rays. The agents accompanied them and were overpowered."

"Two armed federal agents were over-powered by one man?" Ziva asked. "It has been a very bad day for the FBI."

"This guy definitely knows his stuff," Balboa said. "He knows where every camera is and turns his head before we can get a good look at him."

They watched the screen as the door to the x-ray room opened and a man, dressed in blue surgical scrubs and cap, pushed Salinas in a wheelchair down the corridor toward the exit. As Balboa said, whenever they neared the security cameras, the man turned his head away.

"Wait!" Gibbs said. "McGee, take it back to where he walked past the vending machine."

McGee jockeyed the controls as they watched the images reverse frame by frame.

"Okay, stop! Go forward again three frames."

"You got something, Gibbs?" Vance said.

"Maybe."

They watched the stilted images as the man turned his head from the camera, toward the vending machine.

"Stop it there, McGee," Gibbs said, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

"There's a reflection in the glass on the vending machine," McGee stated.

"DiNozzo _definitely_ owes me fifty bucks," Gibbs quipped. "Vampires do cast reflections."

"Trent Kort!" Ziva said.

"Yep, now we know who Kort's source was. You can call off the BOLO, Director, Salinas is long gone."

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

Several hours later, McGee walked into the bullpen and waited as Gibbs finished a call.

"That was Jack Corbin," Gibbs said. "Wanted to check on DiNozzo and to let us know that he's made all the necessary changes to the security system at his facilities."

"Did he mention Joe Castillo, Boss?"

"Corbin's arranged the best criminal attorney he could find to take his case. Given the fact that Torres threatened his daughter and Castillo co-operated fully with our investigation, he'll probably get a suspended sentence."

McGee nodded absently and placed a file on the team leader's desk.

"Ducky asked me to give you Lopez' file, Boss, he said that's the last of the pathology reports."

Gibbs nodded, watching peripherally as McGee shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Need something, McGee?"

"Ducky just told me…Boss, would you mind if I took an hour personal time?"

"Something wrong?"

"Just something I need to take care of."

Gibbs eyed his agent, noting his unusual evasiveness and realising the younger man didn't want to discuss the matter.

"Go," he said.

"Thanks, Boss," McGee replied as he retrieved his weapon and ID from his desk and headed for the elevator.

"McGee!" Gibbs called, opening the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed the latest GSM swimsuit edition and a variety of sport magazines that he'd purchased on an earlier coffee run. "Take these with you. Tell DiNozzo he's in for two more days and if he tries to sign himself out early I'll kick his ass into next week."

"On it. Boss," McGee replied, not even bothering to wonder how the team leader knew where he was going – he was Gibbs after all.

Arriving at Bethesda, McGee walked into Tony's room and dropped heavily into the chair beside the bed. Dispensing with the small talk, he decided to plunge right in.

"I'm told you've been avoiding talking to me," he said.

Tony rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "Ducky ratted me out!"

"Ducky was concerned," McGee replied. "This is a first…most days I can't get you to stop talking to me, suddenly I can't get you to start."

An awkward silence passed between the two men for several long moments.

"I'm sorry about Morrison," Tony said softly, unable to look McGee in the eyes.

"He was a good man…would have been a good agent," McGee said grimly. "First Michelle Lee and now Aaron…I keep losing my probies."

"I nearly lost mine," Tony said, barely above a whisper.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," McGee said after a moment.

Tony met his gaze with guilt-ridden eyes. "I left you behind at that warehouse! You could have been killed, man…that would have been on me."

"You were barely conscious! You didn't even know who _you_ were, let alone who _I _was!"

The senior field agent looked away, obviously not convinced. McGee took another deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Okay…listen up 'cos I'm only gonna say this once and if you tell anyone, I'll deny it. We've faced a lot of tough times, losing Kate, Jenny, the boss leaving for Mexico, our team being split up, the terrorist camp in Somalia."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Probie, you can cancel my Prozac prescription…I feel much better now," Tony said, reverting to humour as his refuge.

"Just shut up and listen," McGee said firmly. "The point is we got through those times because we stuck together as a team."

"Yeah but I…"

"Uh uh!" McGee held up his index finger to halt Tony's rebuttal. "I'm not finished! Since I became an agent, there've been several times when things _really_ got to me personally - when I seriously thought about handing in my badge and walking away. Like when Ari put the bomb in the trunk of that car and I turned the key, or when I was involved in shooting that undercover cop. When Erin Kendall was killed or right after the boss was hurt on the Turkish freighter."

"Maybe _you _should order the Prozac, McGloomy."

"Hey, I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!" he scolded.

"Sorry, man," Tony mumbled, suitably chastised.

"As I was saying, the point is…when those things happened, you were there for me _every single time_ – not the Boss, not Ducky or Abby, not Ziva or even Kate…you. Sure…there have been many days where the nicknames and the endless hazing has infuriated me…but to know that your partner has your back when it really matters …it's worth the trade off."

"DiNozzo's rule number five - never stop looking out for your probie," Tony said. "Comes right after DiNozzo's rule number four which is, drive your probie to distraction, see if he can take it."

"Some people think I'm not man enough to let you know when you've crossed the line. Five years ago they would have been right…but not anymore."

"I always knew that inside that mild mannered McGoo persona there was a WWF wrestler just waiting to kick my ass."

"Trust me Tony, you could make Mother Teresa wanna kick your ass! But so there's no misunderstanding…when you cross the line, I'll let you know about it."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Tony said gently. "Look's like my probie is all grown up. My work here is done."

"Maybe not…maybe I'm not done being your probie for the same reasons your not done being Gibbs' probie."

"Masochism?"

"Pathetic aren't we?" McGee grimaced. "So…we good?"

"Yeah, man…we're good," Tony agreed.

"It'll be good to have you back, Tony."

"Are you saying ya missed me, McGoo?"

"I'm saying that, at least when you're around, the bad guys beat up on you and not me."

The familiar banter felt right and the agents began to relax.

"So, Probie…what's this I hear about you wearing make-up?"

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

The following afternoon, Vance called the MCRT, Abby, Palmer and Ducky into his office. They found him watching the news on the large TV mounted on the wall. During the past thirty-six hours, egged on by Senator Barnaby's political opponents, the media had whipped themselves into frenzy over the reports of major impropriety.

They watched the footage of hordes of media camped outside Caldwell's home, following his every move and desperate for that exclusive statement or photo of the disgraced man.

Political commentators were calling for an independent inquiry and Senator Barnaby had announced his immediate retirement from public office, citing ill health. The inquiry was also expected to have far-reaching effects at the Attorney General's office.

Caldwell's political aspirations were in tatters and despite his resignation from FBI he would still face charges including wrongful arrest, assault with intent to kill and a slew of others. His passport had been revoked and it was highly probable that he would be convicted and would serve time.

Acting on his orders, an FBI sniper had come close to killing their partner. Although each of the team wished they could inflict a world of pain on Caldwell for his actions, they were law enforcement officers who believed and trusted in the justice system. They realised that, for a man like Caldwell, public humiliation and internment was, by far, the more painful and more satisfying punishment.

The TV network replayed earlier footage of Caldwell leaving his home to attend a meeting with his attorney. Thick plaster was moulded across the bridge of his nose and his eyes were blackened and swollen.

"Good Lord," Ducky exclaimed. "What on Earth happened to his face?"

"According to Director Timmins, Caldwell was running to avoid the media, slipped and fell, broke his nose," Vance replied.

Vance muted the sound but left the television on, as he cast an appraising eye on his people. The stress and long hours of the past few months was showing on all of them, even his lead agent looked tired and lacked his usual Marine stance as he leaned back against the wall, hands casually placed in his jacket pockets.

"Morrison's memorial service is tomorrow in San Diego," Vance said. "I assume you'd all like to attend?"

Receiving a unanimous reply the director advised that SecNav had arranged to fly team to San Diego for the funeral service, after which, the team would be on compulsory stand down for one week.

"When is DiNozzo being discharged?" Vance asked.

"Tomorrow," Gibbs replied."

"I take it you won't be coming to Morrison's service?"

"Spoke with Morrison's parents last night, paid my respects. DiNozzo's gonna need a hand for a while."

The director advised them of flight details and arranged for them to meet him at Anacostia Naval Station at zero eight hundred the next morning. As the team left the office, Vance called for Gibbs to remain.

"When I was boxing, I always found that Tylenol and icepacks helped with the pain of swollen and bruised hands," he said, his face was implacable but his eyes were smiling.

Gibbs hesitated, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his director's words. Slowly he removed his hands from his pockets and looked at the skinned and swollen knuckles.

"I kinda like the way they feel," he said, exchanging what Tony would call a "nudge, nudge, wink, wink" with the director.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—00**

When Tony was released from Bethesda the following morning, Gibbs had expected to have his agent stay in the guest room at his house, as he had on previous occasions. But when the younger man insisted on going home to his own apartment, Gibbs recognised a desperate yet unspoken need for Tony to reconnect with his own life, his own belongings, his own identity.

The team leader was pleased and relieved to see the slight improvement in Tony's condition. Though he still had a long way to go, he had to admit a measure of pride in the younger man's strength and resilience.

A potent mixture of exhaustion, fatigue and extremely strong meds meant that Tony slept for long periods of the day and night as his body attempted to heal itself.

Gibbs was concerned when Tony flatly refused to take his medication the following morning. The former Marine had learned over the years, that when DiNozzo dug his heels in, no amount of coercion or even threats of violence could change his mind. He heard Tony moving about in the bedroom and when his curiosity became too much, he walked to the door and found his agent struggling into a pair of jeans.

Still wearing the sling on his left arm and the awkward, figure eight brace, designed to keep his shoulders back and restrict their movement, Gibbs shook his head at the younger man's stubbornness.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

Not waiting for an answer, he selected a warm shirt from Tony's wardrobe and helped him into it, ignoring the younger man's huff of frustration and embarrassment. Placing a pair of slip-on shoes at Tony's feet, he continued to lend support where he knew it was needed and would never be asked. He didn't push for answers – Tony certainly had something on his mind but Gibbs knew with certainty that his agent would tell him when he felt the time was right.

A short time later, Tony told him he had something important to do and asked if Gibbs would drive him. As Gibbs parked the car in the grounds of the Oak Hill cemetery, he understood. Tony struggled one-handed to free himself from the seatbelt as Gibbs rounded the car and opened the passenger door.

"You want company?" he asked.

"Sure," came Tony's subdued reply.

The former Marine matched the younger man's slow and careful gait as they walked together down the path. Tony took a slip of paper from his pocket and veered to the path leading to the left - soon after they found the grave he was searching for.

RAMON SANCHEZ

Tony's eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest, causing Gibbs to wonder whether the gesture represented prayer, grief, regret or stress on his still weakened body. He decided it was probably a little of everything. He kept an eye on his agent, satisfied that his hands appeared steady and being outdoors was adding a little healthy colour to his pale face.

They stood silently, shoulder to shoulder for several long moments. Tony reached into his pocket again then stepped forward to place two small items by the foot of the headstone – one an American flag, the other, a small flag heralding Minnesota's Golden Gophers. He stood and took a couple of unsteady steps before Gibbs took hold of his elbow and led him to the nearby park bench. The missed medication had caused the return of pain lines around his eyes.

"I liked him, Boss. Ray was a good guy," Tony said in a hoarse whisper.

Gibbs sat quietly as Tony told him of the enjoyable breakfast he and Ray had shared exchanging football stories and tales of their glory days at college. He recounted their agreement to watch the upcoming Buckeyes Vs Gophers football game on the wide-screen plasma as they enjoyed a steak and a few beers. And he laughed as he told Gibbs of their silly bet and the even sillier stakes. The smile disappeared suddenly as Tony looked back at the new headstone.

"I didn't know him long, Boss, but he looked out for me and he watched my back. He was a good man and a good agent."

Several more moments passed before Tony slowly rose to his feet and started back down the path. Gibbs watched him go then added his own silent thanks, grateful that, in his absence, someone else had done their best to keep Tony safe - then he hustled to catch up with his agent.

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

Arriving home from the cemetery, Tony took his meds without argument, a sure sign of the pain he was feeling, then, as he had done since returning from the hospital, he slept for several hours. The rest of the day and evening he was uncharacteristically subdued, still frustrated by his lost memories and what was likely to be a long and painful recovery.

The absence of a yard and basement at Tony's apartment gave Gibbs more time on his hands than he was used to. Returning from a light run early the next morning, Gibbs quickly showered and dressed. Looking in on Tony and finding him still sleeping, he left a hastily written note, grabbed his keys and dashed out the door.

He returned almost two hours later, finding Tony padding around the kitchen with bare feet and wearing a pair of well-worn sweats, his wet hair sticking up at odd angles. The younger man was wearing the sling but not the shoulder brace, as he was still too sore to manage it without help. Walking into the kitchen, Gibbs handed Tony an envelope before swiping a piece of toast that was headed for Tony's mouth and helping himself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

"What's this?" he asked quietly.

"Open it?"

Tony opened the envelope, gasping with surprise as he removed two tickets to the Ohio State Vs Minnesota football game being played in Columbus in two days time.

"Boss, where did you get these…these are private suite tickets!"

"Spoke to Jack Corbin. He has a business associate on the Board of Trustees at OSU. He organised it."

"Just us? You and me?"

"Unless you'd rather give that other ticket to someone else."

"No! I mean…this is amazing!" Tony said, his face lighting up with the first real smile Gibbs had seen from him in weeks. Removing a brochure from the envelope, he read aloud. "VIP parking, custom catering, wet bar with refrigerator…"

"Beer for me, soda for you," Gibbs interjected.

"Full time concierge at our service - I've always wanted one of those. Television monitors with close-up viewing and replay action…Boss, this is gonna be great!" His eyes widened and his smile disappeared as a thought occurred. "I can't go."

"Why?"

"Ducky will never go for it. You know what he's been like, he rings six times a day and wigs out if I tell him I walked to the mailbox by myself."

"He's worried about you, DiNozzo, besides, I already ran it by him."

"He said yes?" Tony asked excitedly.

"He said no," Gibbs replied, watching as his agent's face fell. "Then I told him that we'd be in a private suite where you could lay down and rest…"

"Like _that's_ gonna happen," Tony scoffed.

"And you wouldn't be jostled and injured by the crowds."

"And _then_ he said yes!" Tony said, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Gibbs shrugged. "Still said no. Said you wouldn't be fit to fly for another week or two."

Disappointment oozed from every pore as Tony placed the tickets back into the envelope. "Thanks anyway, Boss. Guess we can catch the game on the Big Ten Network."

"The car's gassed up, if you get your ass in gear, we can leave as soon as you're packed."

"We're taking a road trip?" Tony asked, the mega-watt smile reappearing.

"With Ducky's blessing."

"Yes!" Tony said, pumping the fist of his good arm into the air and moving into the bedroom as quickly as he could manage.

Gibbs grabbed Tony's duffle and laid it open on the bed, then carefully helped Tony back into the dreaded shoulder brace. As the younger man threw some clothes into his bag, Gibbs retrieved Tony's bathroom kit and returned to help him slip his arm into the sleeve of his shirt. He bit back a grin, listening to Tony's excited chatter.

"We are gonna have a blast! Naturally, I'll be barracking for the Bucks but to make it interesting, Boss, you're gonna have to cheer on the Gophers."

"I can do that," Gibbs shrugged.

"I'll need to buy you…"

"Don't even think about it!" Gibbs threatened. "I am not wearing a hat with a Gopher on it."

"Oh…what about…"

"And I'm not singing a damn victory song about a gopher!"

"Well…I don't think they actually sing about the gopher, Boss, and you won't need to know the victory song, cos the Bucks are gonna win, but I'm sure I can find the words to Minnesota's fight song on the internet. You'll have seven hours to practice in the car."

Gibbs flashed the younger man a look that brooked no argument.

"Or not," Tony said, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "I don't wanna seem ungrateful here, Boss, but you're kinda raining on my parade."

"Behave yourself and I might buy ya one of those little Brutus Buckeye pen holders for your desk." Gibbs replied, zipping Tony's duffle and throwing it over his shoulder. "Come on."

While Tony fed his fish and made sure all appliances were off, Gibbs held out two tablets and a glass of water. He watched as the younger man washed down his usual daily dosage without a second thought and then continued to yammer excitedly.

Gibbs was sure Tony didn't come up for air for the duration of their trip from the apartment to the car. He threw Tony's bag in the trunk with his own and helped settle the younger man into the passenger seat.

Tony produced a Miles Davis CD, seemingly from midair, and was disappointed – but not really surprised – to find that Gibbs hadn't installed a CD player. He adjusted the dial of the radio until he found a jazz station and settled back with a sigh and a yawn.

"This'll be fun, Boss, just you and me, taking a little road trip – DiNozzo style."

"DiNozzo style?"

"Sure, we can listen to some music, talk about sports and movies, cars and women; play a little punch buggy. You know, real men stuff."

"Real men play punch buggy?" Gibbs questioned.

"You're right – forget punch buggy, besides this shoulder's not up to it," he said around another yawn. "We'll be like Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, you know, the movie with Clint Eastwood and Jeff Bridges, or Easy Rider with Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda."

As Tony launched into another large yawn, Gibbs looked at his watch with a wry smile, thinking about the peace and quiet he was likely to get the minute Tony's medication kicked in. The meds were strong and usually put the younger man out for at least five hours.

"Boss, you think, maybe, I can take the wheel, you know, give you a break from the driving and see how she handles?"

"Nope!" Gibbs said definitively.

"Come on! It's a 1970's Dodge Challenger R/T with 426 HEMI and R/T suspension package!"

"And you have one good arm and a head injury!" Gibbs countered loudly but without any real heat. "You touch the keys to my car, or if - just once - you ask me "are we there yet" you'll be back in the hospital with another head injury. Are we clear?"

The tired smile on the younger man's face left him in no doubt that DiNozzo was enjoying their familiar banter and slowly getting back to his button pushing best. He matched his agent's grin with one of his own when Tony replied.

"I gotcha, Boss."

Ten minutes later the soft snoring from his passenger drew his attention, as the meds kicked in and Tony was out for the count.

"Right on time, DiNozzo," he said quietly, with a quick look at his watch. "See you in five hours."

He adjusted the heat to make sure his agent was warm and then switched the radio back to his preferred AM station. He flashed a rare bright smile at his sleeping passenger and then settled back to enjoy taking a little road trip – Gibbs style!

**00—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo—oo00oo-00**

**THE END**

**A/N:- We made it! This story is twice as long and with much more detail than I have ever written before. I realise that this type of story is not everyone's cup of tea and, for that reason; I am delighted that so many of you chose to take this journey with me.**

**Special thanks to all who took the time to read this story in its entirety, particularly those who took an extra moment to provide me with your valuable feedback. I appreciate the amount of time you all invested in reading my story and truly hope you considered it time well spent. Thanks, also, for including me in your prayers and good wishes, I'm overwhelmed. **

**Until next time, with every good wish, L**


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